Thrice Damned
by Reynold J. Dalton
Summary: RD Ch5. Now that she's seen it, Sylphiel's memories of the monster come flooding back to her. Seeking Fayne to warn him of the danger, she finds him unavailable, but gets yet another strange clue in an unlikely place. R&R flames keep me warm at night.
1. Beneath the Great Tree

Anyway, I'm submitting the first few chaptershere because I want to get some feedback. I would like to know what people think about the portrayal of characters. As I've already said, I am making some changes to the show, but I don't want anything to be drastically different. So, I would greatly appreciate it if you, the readers, would comment on whether or not you think I have changed a the characters too much.

I thank you for your time and reviews. Even if you absolutely hate what I've done so far, please tell me. This is still in the very early stages and there's more than enough time change some things to make it right.

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The Demonic Tongue

Pronunciation Guide

_Vowels_

Vowels in the demonic tongue are pronounced as follows. There are no exceptions to this.

_A_ ä (**a**h)

_E_ ē (f**ee**t)

_I_ i (l**i**ft)

_O_ ō (n**o**)

_U_ ū (r**u**de)

_Vowel Combinations_

Vowels do not combine in the demonic tongue; instead, both vowels are pronounced. For example, AE ah-ee; OU oh-oo

_Double Vowels_

With the following exceptions, all double vowels are pronounced as single vowels, but held longer.

_AA_ ā (**a**ge)

_II_ ī (k**i**te)

_Consonants_

All consonants are pronounced as it would in English except as follows.

_C_ kh as in the German ach

_H_ always pronounced, rolls out of the throat

_Q_ ch (**ch**ew)

_R_ rolls on the tongue

_X_ Sh (**sh**oe)

_Y_ Always Y as in **Y**es

_Z_ Chinese Zh, as in **Zh**ou

_Consonant Combinations_

Combinations of consonants do not form different sounds. Instead, both sounds are pronounced together. For example, _SHA: s-(h)a, THA: t-(h)a, GHA: g-(h)a, JYA: j-ya_

_Double Consonants_

With the following exceptions, the demonic tongue has no double consonants.

_SS_ sounds like hissing

_NN_ lengthened

_MM_ lengthened

_Other_

' apostrophes denote a short pause in the word

_R/N_ when words end with these letters, violent emphasis is placed on the vowel immediately before it.

Sorry, a pronunciation guide is all you get.

If any of you were actually interested in the gramatics of the language, I actually don't have enough knowledge of the syntactical terms to explain it propperly. Basically, the grammar is similar to Japanese, but is pronounced with a harsh Germanic overtone. A few words were invented here and there to express concepts that I felt a demonic race would have, while certain words are virtually non-existent. The language has only one tense, that being present, but it implies a past tense through context and syntax. The idea behind this is that, living forever as the Mazoku do (assuming they are not killed), the concept of time would have an entirely different meaning to them.

That's about as detailed as I can get, and probably much more than you cared to hear. Bascially, I created this language for one purpose, to help differentiate between the different types of magic. Black magic incantations will all be in demonic. The rest I expect you'll figure out as you read. Anywho, on with the story.

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**Thrice Damned**

Prologue

Beneath the Great Tree

The citizens of Sairaag greeted the sun as it began its glorious ascension above the sea. This was nothing unusual; of all the people who lived under the Empire of Lyzelle, none were said to be more industrious than those who lived in the city of Sairaag. Long ago, The Faith had decided that their temple would be built beneath the shadow of the Flagoon, the Great Camphor Tree, where the beast Zanafar's terrible power had been sealed away and around the temple, a proud city had been constructed. Many claimed that the citizens of Sairaag toiled as they did in order to draw the favor from The Faith, but this was an unfair observation. Over the decades, creatures from the surrounding region had been drawn to the temple again and again, and the countless assaults by mazoku and other monstrous beasts had nearly devastated the city many times. In the cycle of destruction and rebuilding, the people of Sairaag had come to value hard work and honest labor as a means of overcoming hardship.

This day, like many days, Sairaag had been active before dawn, but today the morning light fell upon a city brimming with energy. All the streets were filled with exuberant citizens speaking merrily of the upcoming events. Even the children were enthralled by excited anticipation as the days drew ever nearer the most beloved celebration of the Empire's history; the Festival of the Summer Stars, now only an eight-day away.

In a mere eight days, the time when the daylight shone longest would arrive and then the whole city would put aside its duties and gather at the fairgrounds for an entire day of feasting and merrymaking. At night, as the stars shone brightly overhead, all would gather around Flagoon and give thanks for the marvelous blessings of life. Around the tree a tremendous paper chain, each link a written prayer of the every citizen, would be hung, while traveling bards would dance, sing and tell stories all night long. To the people of Sairaag, no other holiday celebrated in Lyzelle could compare to the Festival of the Summer Stars.

Born from beyond the mountains to the southeast, a warm, midsummer breeze wafted effortlessly out of the foothills. Wooden signs hung over shop entryways swayed, rusty hinges slightly creaking, as it gently drifted into the city. Through the busy streets it blew on its northward journey, out of the city and up the path leading to the Great Tree, catching in a young temple maiden's dark hair, causing it to billow up around her.

The young woman, crouched beside the rosebushes that bordered the path, allowed the wind its moment of fancy before brushing back the long strands that strayed from their proper place. Indulging herself briefly, she arched her spine in a slightly catlike stretch, then leaned back a bit, straightening her work clothes as she looked up at the radiant blue sky. She let the soul-warming light sink into her silken skin, admiring the splendid beauty of the day.

Sylphiel, she had been named by her adoptive father, and for no other could such a delicate name be more appropriate. From her soft face, its fair tone accentuated by the contrast of her black hair, violet eyes took in all the beauty of the world, their inner glow giving it back tenfold, and when her lips, red as the roses she now tended, met in a smile, its simple purity could dissuade a starved wolf from attacking.

The moment passed and the maiden returned to her morning duties. Pulling her gloves back into place, she reached down to pluck the weeds sprouting at the roots. That finished, she drew from the basket at her side a pair of clippers and, keeping a wary eye out for thorns, carefully pruned the bush before completing her chore with the watering can. Across the path, she repeated the process with the next bush, continuing toward Flagoon with slow, but steady progress. As she neared the end of the path, one of the acolytes, initiate priests of The Faith, passed by on his way to scripture study, glancing at her from the corner of his eyes in a desperate effort not to look at her directly.

"Good morning." She smiled up at him pleasantly.

The boy started at the greeting. Turning to face her, his hands fidgeting nervously, he bowed to the temple maiden far more than was customary for politeness.

"Ah, good morning, Miss Sylphiel," he managed, straightening up. "It's a fine day, isn't it?"

As Sylphiel rose to her feet, the acolyte struggled to keep his eyes elevated toward her face. She removed one of her gloves and reached out to the boys hair, brushing up a lock of blond hair that had fallen over one of the boy's eyes. A brilliant red hue flushed across his freckled cheeks, a slight shudder passing over him.

"It's a lovely day," Sylphiel replied. "Now hurry along to your studies."

The acolyte nodded, stuttering as he politely excused himself, and rushed away, looking back over his shoulder once and stumbling before joining the other acolytes. The young woman couldn't help but chuckle, covering her mouth with one hand, as she watched him go. In the midst of the boys, seated on one of the trees giant roots, the priest leading the study group gave her a stern, questioning look. She shrugged helplessly in reply. She understood his concern; having shown the boy some attention, there was bound to be conflict among the acolytes about the gesture, the affection of which would doubtless be exaggerated, but boys were boys and she could do nothing about it. The priest shook his head, his expression both amused and bemused, and continued with his lesson.

Sylphiel pulled off her gloves with a relaxed sigh and dropped them into the basket. She approached the tree and admired the golden tint of the morning light on its leaves as she walked around to the back of the trunk to a gap between the roots, the place where she had buried Rezo II, the man who murdered the only father she had ever known.

That one man's ambitions had caused the near complete destruction of Sairaag, almost killed the Great Tree and cost the lives of so many innocent people still seemed unfathomable to her. Almost four years had passed since that day and the city had been rebuilt to its former splendor, as it always was, but still every terrible moment of that time haunted her dreams. How horrifying, that one man could be the cause of so much suffering.

From her pocket, the temple maiden drew a daisy she had grown in her home garden, holding it gently in her hands, glancing from it, to the grave and back again. As she stood in silence her memories of him – the cold smile, the piercing blue and brown eyes, the hateful, murderous declaration of intent – fell away till only one remained, the pleading expression of a confused, dying man. Sylphiel laid the flower between the roots and then stepped back away from the otherwise unmarked grave. Her eyes closed and head bowed solemnly, she put her hands together in a gesture of prayer. A long, contemplative silence passed, with only the distant drone of the lecturing priest on the other side of the tree giving sign to her that the rest of the world continued around her.

Another warm breeze, slightly stronger than the last, drifted in from the west, carrying with it the salty scent of the ocean. Sylphiel again brushed back her hair and wiped away a tear that had begun a slow pilgrimage down her left cheek. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a peaceful smile finding its way to her face.

As the time passed, the young woman became aware of someone watching, the feeling of eyes on her settling quietly into her mind. She continued to stare at the grave as though lost in though; there was no need for her to look to recognize the priest who now approached her from behind.

"What are you praying for?" Radin asked as he stepped up close to her.

He placed hand on her shoulder, wrapping the other arm around her, and leaned his head against her neck. Without turning, she placed her own hand on his, reaching across her body with the other to gently stroke his face, feeling a flutter in her heart as they touched.

"His peace," she replied softly.

Radin smiled as he drew her hand up to his mouth for a gentle kiss. "You pray for _his_ peace?" he asked, his tone equally gentle. "After all Rezo II did?"

"I looked into his eyes as he died and I could only feel sorry for him. He wanted to prove that he was better than Rezo, so he could believe it himself. But he didn't understand what greatness was, and so his dreams only eluded him until he could only lash out at the world in confused rage. He must have been so lonely."

Sylphiel allowed Radin to turn her around to face him, meeting his longing gaze. She made no move to resist as his hands slid down from her shoulders to caress her arms as warmly and gently as the first morning breeze until he took hold of her hands, his gaze not once straying from hers. He drew nearer to her, till his brown hair brushed against her forehead. She stared deeply into his face, boyish and awkward when she had first met him, now strong and proud, his jaw set firm and his brown eyes that she believed drew in things from the world which no other man could see.

As Radin looked back at her, he could only admire what he saw. In the face of all the hardships which she had experienced, she remained pure, untainted by malice or regret. She was pure in heart, mind and body, yet it was not the purity of a person simple or childish in nature. In her he could sense the resounding strength of matured soul that remained true to itself in spite of whatever may happen. He had never seen such a purity in any other person before and somehow knew that he never would.

As the seconds passed, the silence grew uncomfortable for the priest. He felt the need to speak, but he could think of nothing to say in that moment. Words twisted up in his mind, resisting any attempt to be organized and finally darting teasingly out of his grasp as he tried to seize them. It would not have been the first time that he wished he'd been gifted with a poet's tongue. If only he could find the means to say what he felt, but there was nothing.

"You are," he whispered, "so beautiful."

Sylphiel smiled up at him and gently touched his clean-shaven chin; she could almost feel him melt at her touch. 'You are so beautiful.' It was the same thing he always said to her in their quiet moments alone, but just as she knew his eyes took in what others couldn't see, she knew his words said more than others could hear. Rising up on her toes, she kissed him lightly on the cheek and then stepped back away.

"We have a lot of work today."

Radin nodded. "Indeed we do."

His hand stretched out to her. For a brief instant, as she reached out to take it, Sylphiel again felt the strange sense of eyes on her and in the corner of her vision she thought she saw a flash of movement behind the Great Tree, but saw nothing when she looked. Side by side, she and Radin walked back toward the temple together. The lecturer didn't notice as the acolytes all turned away from him to glare jealously at the priest and the temple maiden, neither of whom would have cared if they had noticed themselves.


	2. Solace

Chapter 1

Solace

The woman paused suddenly, the brown stallion which carried her and her traveling companion's meager supplies stopping beside her, the clopping of its hooves muffled by the rain-dampened earth. Seeing the almost intense gaze in her bright, orange-tinted eyes, the tall, blonde figure following her halted, ready to draw the sword at his hip at a moment's notice, his breastplate and scale-mail armor still dripping from the downpour that had just passed.

"What is it, Lina?" he asked, his dark blue eyes darting about suspiciously.

Lina Inverse continued to glance about the dim forest as though she hadn't heard her companion speak. Little streams of light sprayed scintillating rainbow patterns as they filtered down through the moistened leaves. The gentle splish of tiny droplets falling from the foliage to the puddles below echoed in the haunting silence – the animals that made their home here had not yet come out after the rain – and a moist scent still lingered in the air.

The mid-summer shower had not been entirely unexpected; Lina had smelled the approaching storm for almost a whole day, but the rain had been heavy and, while there had been no wind worth mentioning, it had passed by quickly. It had also been warm – again, not unexpected for the season – leaving her drenched, but not overly uncomfortable.

Gourry, on the other hand, couldn't quite say the same. The rain had sunken in between the metal plates of his armor, causing the leather holding it together to swell a bit, not only increasing the weight, but stiffening the joints and now they made an awkward squishing sound when he moved.

Lina listened to the serenity of the forest around her. Most travelers would not have thought any more of the quiet than a momentary calm before life picked up again. Most would have enjoyed the peaceful moment after so hard a storm. Most would not have felt the caress of cold hatred in the air.

But Lina felt it as tangibly as though someone were standing at her back, plucking at the hairs of her neck with icy fingers. Though nothing of her face betrayed it as she continued to glance about the forest, there was a terrible taste in her mouth - something like bile - that made her stomach roll with nausea. She could see nothing, but the stillness around them was no natural thing and she knew it.

Something was following them.

Behind her, Gourry drew his sword. "Is something wrong?"

Lina turned to face him, meeting the calm, but fierce gaze. Not a word was spoken, but there was no need for that; the glances passed between them made their thoughts as clear to each other as if they had voiced them. Lina nodded to her companion with her eyes, then gave him a smile so naturally childlike it would have disarmed the most skilled warrior.

"I think the storm has passed," she replied. She first straightened her magenta garb, then the leather belt at her waste, polishing the inlaid ruby with a white-gloved hand, and then pulled her travel boots back into place, all the while continuing to talk. "Put your sword away Gourry, before you hurt yourself. I'm just taking off my cloak, as if you couldn't tell. Don't be so uptight, or you'll be really sore by the time we get to town."

Lina laughed in a girlish way that made her seem almost as young as she looked. She stroked the diamond-shaped patch of white on Rusher's nose, then ran her fingers through its shaggy mane and the steed threw back its head and whinnied at the attention. Rummaging through her pack, she drew out her black cape and dagger, fastening the former to her collar and the latter at her hip, then held her hand out to Gourry, gesturing at the horse's bridle. With a noncommittal shrug, the swordsman sheathed his weapon and handed the reins over to her, removing his gauntlets to comb the water out of his hair as she led the animal onward.

Lina forced herself to keep smiling, but her eyes continued to wander about the trees. The feeling of rage had gone, but that was far from comforting. She had no way of knowing if it had truly left, or if it had simply doubled its guard. When she had first sensed the presence following them almost a week ago, she had thought some fledgling magician had begun stalking her in hopes of gaining apprenticeship - as the most powerful sorceress in the world, it was only natural to expect such things - but when it didn't reveal itself, she had begun to worry.

Now, however, it was clear now that no human tailed them. After feeling such strong bloodlust, she was certain that it was Mazoku. It disguised itself well, better than anything she had ever seen before, but she had dealt with enough demons to recognize their slippery, snaky presence.

But why hadn't she seen it yet? She had been trying since they had left Solaria, but not even a brief spot, for even an instant, from the corner of her vision had she managed to catch of it. If it honestly believed that it could have remained undetected for all this time by _her_, she would have to teach it a very painful lesson in underestimating Lina Inverse when she finally did catch it. If it knew that she had sensed it – and how it could not, she couldn't imagine – then why hadn't it confronted her openly yet? What was it waiting for? And how was it so damn patient?

Lina mentally shrugged. If the monster wanted to play games, she could amuse herself for a while. It was just a simple matter of continuing to pretend that nothing at all seemed out of the ordinary until it finally slipped up, which it would, given enough time to get careless. When that finally happened, then she would show the creature what the stakes of playing games with Lina Inverse really were. With that though in mind, she almost succeeded in convincing herself of her control over the situation.

The smile slowly faded from her face. Almost wasn't good enough. She could easily believe that she and her companion would be able to match it in combat, but something told her that it might not be that sort of confrontation she would need to worry about. There was something different about this one, something that she couldn't quite put her finger on. Though she had outwardly denied it, when Gourry had asked if something was wrong, the answer on her mind had been yes. Something was very wrong with the feeling she got from it, wrong in a way that she had never felt before. She wanted ask Gourry about it, who had always been more sensitive to such things - admitting that to herself still felt like driving a needle in between her shoulders, but she did admit it, if only to herself - but she couldn't be sure if the demon still watched and she knew whatever insight her companion might have had would be an advantage she had to keep out of their stalker's hands.

She looked back over her shoulder. Trudging along behind her, Gourry wore a face so nonchalant that even she might have assumed he had forgotten all about it and perhaps he had, or at least stopped thinking about it. It was always difficult to tell when Gourry was playing dumb, likely because at least half the time he probably wasn't playing at all. Whether the casual brilliance of his idiocy was the most skilled act imaginable, or simply kisses from some kami of luck, she knew she would never know for certain, but she was at least grateful she had the tool at her disposal.

"Lina," Gourry said suddenly, "I'm hungry."

The thought of food made her realize that she was hungry too. Looking further down the path, the end of the forest was in sight and not far beyond that would be the next town.

"We'll stop at a good inn and have ourselves a real meal," she replied. "And we'll sleep in a good bed tonight."

"That'll be great," the excitement of his cheerful tone was so honest that Lina chuckled in spite of herself.

As the two continued onward, a lark flew overhead, singing, and a squirrel poked its head out of its knothole to listen.

The trees thinned out along the gentle downward slope, and from the top the travelers could see where the thatched roofed buildings lay sprawled out like a lazy sleeper. Lina paused a moment and pulled out a map tucked down in her collar, carefully unfolding it with her free hand. It labeled the town as Solace, though, looking from the parchment to the town, she wasn't sure that the name suited the town. It seemed quaint enough, but somehow it didn't seem quite right. Though she could see people in the streets going about their business from her vantage point, the town seemed almost lifeless, its citizens moving about in a golem-like stupor. From where she stood, Lina noted two guards at the road leading in and out of the town, but could also see a small number of others patrolling the boundaries, continually glancing eastward as if searching vainly for any sign of approach.

"Cheery, isn't it," Gourry commented dryly, coming up beside her.

Lina tucked the map back into her collar and clicked her tongue as she pulled the horse's bridle, leading it down the hillock toward the town, and Gourry followed close behind. The guards on the road straightened up as they noticed the two adventurers approaching, seeming reluctant to look away from the other road out of town. When they drew near, one gripped his halberd in both hands, while the other drove the base of the handle into the ground in a commanding gesture.

"From where do you hail?"

Lina continued to approach, scrutinizing the guards. The one who had spoken was older, his face was hardened and lines of age crowded around his deep-set eyes, while a grey mustache grew from beneath his squared nose. He carried himself like one who had been a soldier by profession all his life, straight-shouldered and firm, with an unyielding focus in his grey eyes. From the tone in his voice, strong and demanding, but not cold, she guessed that he'd probably been a captain for the sovereign guard before coming to the town.

The other one, much younger, still had a boyish softness to his face and light brown hair peeking out from under the helmet. His stance was somewhat awkward, as was his grasp on his weapon, while his armor was seemed a size too large for him. As she rolled her eyes over him, he continually shifted from one foot to the other, either nervous, or bored, or perhaps both. A rookie, no doubt about it. She smiled at him in a fox-like manner, noting that his grip on the halberd tightened and that a bead of sweat built up on his forehead when she did.

"Well, travelers?" the captain asked again.

"As you said," Lina replied, "we're travelers. We don't exactly hail from any particular place."

The captain looked down at her, stroking his mustache in thought, considering the statement, looking her over carefully. Lina continued to smile at him as she had his younger partner, though the captain could see the satisfaction in her eyes; satisfaction at being the first to take in the whole situation.

"We just came from Solaria," Gourry added.

With an uncertain nod, he slowly looked up from Lina to the swordsman.

"And what brings you to Solace?"

Lina scoffed at the question. "Food, of course," she snapped flippantly, as though the answer should have been obvious.

Again a slow nod from the captain as he glanced at Lina sideways. "And where are you headed?"

Gourry opened his mouth to speak, but Lina cut him off. "I'm not sure you really need to know that."

The captain's bushy eyebrow raised slightly as he shot the young woman a quick glance. He looked back to Gourry for a moment, who only stared back at him with a shrug. The captain's eyes narrowed a bit as he looked back to Lina, stroking his mustache again.

"I didn't ask you." He kept a calm, even tone, gaging the woman's reaction carefully.

"No," she admitted cheerfully, raising one hand, turning her palm upward in a conceding gesture, "but I answered anyway."

The younger guard groaned at the reply. "Look, little girl," he said impatiently, "just let your big brother answer the questions."

Gourry gasped audibly and the captain whirled around to silence the soldier with an angry, warning glare, but too late. The guard watched the woman's entire body go rigid, the bridle slipping from her hands, her mouth dropping half open, her eyes popping wide. Seeing her face turn bright red with anger, the color drained from his own.

Lina clenched her fists tightly, grinding her teeth together as she turned the comment over in her mind, her eye twitching in indignant rage. 'Little girl?' He was younger than her by at least ten years – not a fact she would've actually mentioned – and he had the gall to call her 'little girl?' Without any thought, she called the words of a spell to her mind, letting their fiery power build up in her hands. For all the heat it began to release, her arm moved with an icy slowness as she raised it up to point at the foolish guard who had dared to insult her.

"_You_," she growled through her teeth, pausing between each word, "just made a _big_ mistake."

The young man stumbled backward in shock, while the captain took hold of his halberd in both hands, ready to strike the first available opportunity, glancing back at Gourry to predict the swordsman's most likely actions in the battle he was certain was just a few seconds away. The action that he took was not what the captain expected. Gourry hopped forward and grasped Lina's wrist and squeezed, breaking her focus on the soldier.

"Lina," he pleaded. "Let's not cause any trouble."

Lina glared up at him with a gaze so venomous it could have withered a tree, but he stared back evenly, his ocean-colored eyes begging her to calm down. Lina clenched her jaw, pursing her lips together in frustration. Gourry mouthed another plea, letting go of her hand. Lina took a deep breath and then let it out in a loud grunt of vexation. Turning up her nose, she whirled on her heel and stomped into the city, poking the guard on the nose as she walked past.

"You got lucky this time, _boy_," she hissed.

The soldier watched her march into the town, then turned to Gourry, who shrugged helplessly before taking Rusher's bridle and running after her. He stared in confusion after the two of them, taking off his helmet and scratching his head. In a burst of disbelieving rage, the captain struck the younger man on the back of the head with his fist.

"You idiot!" he scolded. "Next time think before you say anything."

Tears welling up in his eyes, the guard rubbed the painful bruise, turning to the captain with a hopeless glance. When his superior threw up his hands with a groan of resignation, he looked away, replacing his helmet.

The captain stood in silence for a moment, stroking his mustache slowly. He let the encounter replay in his thoughts several times, absorbing the details, feeling as though he had missed something important. Suddenly it struck him and he turned to his partner.

"Lina," he said, repeating the name he had heard the swordsman say. "You don't suppose that was . . ."

The younger guard thought a moment, then his eyes bulged outward in shock at the realization of what had just happened. "By the kami!" he gasped.

There seemed a distrusting atmosphere about the town, as if the people were afraid of her. That was the sense that Lina grasped from her observations of Solace. She knew she was not imagining it; women and children would cross to the other side of the street as she passed, while the men refused to look at her. Not a word was spoken, but a powerful sense of hostility filled the streets; or perhaps not hostility, but simply fear.

So much for Solace.

Lina paid it all little mind. She had other things on her mind to worry about and aside from it all, she still felt angry about the young guard's comment; she might have screamed out of rage had she been elsewhere. It was the same everywhere she went. She was Lina Inverse, the most powerful sorceress in all the land, but all anybody ever saw of her was a 'little girl.' She glanced down at herself and couldn't suppress the sense of inadequacy at what she saw. She was approaching her mid-thirties, an age when others might have longed for such a vibrant, youthful appearance as hers, but for Lina, she sometimes felt that she would've traded all her power if she could only look her age, or perhaps just ten years younger than her real age, anything but a child of fourteen years.

"Lina."

She didn't bother to look at Gourry as he came up beside her. No need to when she could already clearly see the expression on his face in her mind – pleading, like a child begging a favor of his parents – it was not at all difficult to imagine.

"Lina," he repeated, "you promised you'd try to keep your temper. You can't keep getting angry at every person who says something like that."

Lina whirled on Gourry, glaring up into his face – pleading, like a child begging a favor, just as she had expected. She had been prepared to yell at him, but the swordsman stared at her so helplessly that even she couldn't say anything back. With an indignant sigh, she turned away and continued on, hands on her hips in a display of her ill mood.

Gourry followed behind her, silent. He was well aware of the sore spot that the guard had just struck for her, though he far from understood it, but he couldn't understand why she had to overreact so much to it whenever someone brought it up. On more than just a few occasions her temper had gotten them both in trouble and the list of towns they had been run out of was no small thing.

Rusher nudged his shoulder with is nose and began biting at the pouch on his belt. Pushing the horse away, he reached into the pouch, pulled out an oat bar and held it out. The horse snorted in pleasure and snatched the bar out of his hand, slobbering on his gauntlet as it gobbled it up. Patting it on the nose, wiping the animal's saliva off at the same time, he glanced around the town. A few houses down the street, he saw an inn, the wooden sign hanging over the door bearing the image of a bed, and a stable behind it. Tapping Lina on the shoulder, he pointed to it.

"Let's get some food," he suggested.

Lina nodded and began crossing the street toward it. A young boy who looked only a few seasons younger than Lina did met them halfway across. His stitched brown tunic had the musty smell of animals and straws of hay and horse hair stuck both in it and the messy blonde-brown mop on his head. He bore a pleasant smile, but his eyes betrayed it as false, as did his step. Both were bereft of the youthful energy expected in children his age, and his eyes held only an overwhelming sense of fear and doubt – much like everyone else in the town.

Lina casually handed him a silver and waited. The boy glanced at the coin in his palm for a moment, then dropped it into a pouch on his belt, muttering an empty, "My thanks, ma'am," and taking the reins from her companion. She watched him trudge back to the stable, leading the horse with him.

Not a hint of change in Lina's expression gave sign of her thoughts, but her mind swirled with questions. A whole silver was kingly for a stableboy, yet, while clearly surprised, there had been no pleasure in his expression. He hadn't even bothered to ask why he was receiving such a generous payment. She felt certain now that all the hostility she felt was not truly directed at her, but something was certainly very wrong. The whole town seemed dispirited, but why?

She looked back at Gourry, who stared back with his usual absent manner. If he noticed anything was amiss, it didn't show. Years ago, she might have been frustrated by her inability to read his face, but now she didn't even shrug as she turned away from him and finished crossing to the inn.

The door creaked dryly as she pushed it open, swinging slowly shut behind Gourry with the same thirsty squeal. In the odd silence, the sound rumbled like one of her exploding fireballs and the small groups at the two occupied tables turned slowly toward it, glaring coldly at them before going back to their drinks.

Lina looked them over quickly. The two ratty-looking figures in the back corner were petty thieves; she had seen enough of those to recognize them on sight. The other group, closer to the front, but still far from either of the buildings two windows, had four barrel-chested men dressed in black cloaks designed to make them appear larger, though such a tactic was needless for men of that size. Muggers, she supposed, no real threat.

Calmly, confidently, the sorceress strode toward the front desk and knocked on it. After a moment's pause, the door behind it opened and a fat man limped out of the kitchen, rubbing the flesh between the two spots of greasy, greyish hair on either side of his head. He plopped his arms down on the desk, leaned toward her – she was certain she could hear the desk's wooden legs crackle under his weight – and looked down over his bulbous nose with a drooping grin.

"How may I help you this fine day, ma'am?" he mumbled, his words stumbling over his oversized lower lip. "We're not too booked up of late, so's we have many fine rooms available to you, miss . . .?"

"What's a good meal in this inn?" Lina asked.

The innkeeper shifted his weight on the desk, masking his discomfort at the woman's refusal to give her name. "At full price I can offer you roast lamb, or beef with peas, bread, a block of orange or white cheese and a good strong ale."

Lina nodded, reaching for her pouch. "We'll take two and a room each. We've also stabled a horse."

"Four gold pence."

Lina paused, the open purse in her hand. Taking a deep breath, she pulled the drawstring, closing the pouch, and turned to innkeeper with an dry expression that showed she found no humor in the man's price. Taking a deep breath, she began twirling her the bag in a circle.

"Do you think that's funny?" she asked coldly.

"No, ma'am. I think that's my price, so I do."

Lina abruptly caught the bag and slammed it down on the desk, leaning toward the innkeeper. Nonchalant, he reached up with one hand and scratched his stubbly chin – between the hair on his chin, arms and, Lina guessed, back (though thank the kami she couldn't see that for sure), he certainly made up for what his head lacked – popping a large pimple as he did.

"Gourry," she said expectantly.

"Huh?"

Lina struggled to suppress an angry twitch; Gourry had completely missed the implication of her tone. The innkeeper, however, did not and he smiled at the swordsman's response, even turned to launch a glob of saliva into the spittoon on the floor beside him. The sorceress cursed silently. The man was serious about the price and she wouldn't be able to intimidate him. She was trapped now and he knew it.

But four gold was ridiculous, there was no possible way that the services could be worth that much in such a small town. It was legalized robbery. And on top of that, the supply of coins between the two of them was rapidly diminishing – far too long had it been since they had done a well paying job – and she was in no mind to give so much up just for one night's stay.

The door creaked open again, but she paid it no mind, nor did she notice the look of shock the others in the inn had on their faces.

"You can't be serious," she demanded, her face turning slightly red. "Since when is a backwater town like this worth that much."

"I'm sorry ma'am," the innkeeper said.

"Stop calling me ma'am like I'm some old maid," Lina burst suddenly. "You want me to pay four gold for a flea-ridden bed and food you've probably left sitting for a week? Well, I wonder why your inn has so many rooms available."

Lina felt a finger tap her on the shoulder and she brushed it away.

"I'm sorry," the innkeeper repeated. "My prices are set as they are. You pay 'em, or you'll have to go elsewhere."

Again, there came a tap on Lina's shoulder. Rolling her eyes, she turned around.

"Gourry, I'm . . ."

Before her stood a svelte figure dressed in white and blue, aristocratic attire with oak-brown hair that hung halfway to his shoulders. He looked down at her from over his beak of a nose with an odd expression of disbelief, while the two men behind him, shorter and dressed all in black, eyed her suspiciously.

"Is there a problem here?" he asked.

"Yes, but I'm dealing with it," Lina shot back. "You can wait your turn."

The man behind him and to the left made a sound of clearing his throat. He quickly shrunk under Lina's cold glare, averting his eyes.

"Might you be Lina Inverse?" the aristocrat asked. She looked up at him, hiding her sudden curiosity behind a mask of now-false anger. "Lina Inverse," he continued, "the bandit killer?"

"I might be," she replied. "Who are you?"

The man smiled, though his eyes still held a hint of doubt to them. Lina saw this, but waited for him to reply.

"I am the Dastin," he answered. "I am the mayor of Solace."

Lina's eyes narrowed slightly for just a moment, pleased, but far from overeager. Turning up her nose defiantly, closing her eyes, she turned her back to him, hands on her hips in a gesture of contempt.

"Well, then, you can do something about this robbery."

"A rather unfortunate and, I assure you, recent development," the mayor explained. "We've run into some trouble. I would like to discuss the possibility of hiring your services."

Lina smiled inwardly. It was just what she needed; gold for her pocket. Still scowling, she turned to the mayor, but before she could open her mouth to speak, the scent of cooking meat drifted out of the kitchen, causing her mouth to water up and a sudden gurgling came from her belly.

Again, Lina cursed silently in frustration, continuing to glare at the mayor, though it was clear from his self-satisfied grin that her bluff had been lost.

"Perhaps over a meal?" the mayor suggested.

Lina returned the grin in the same heartless manner, then turned to the innkeeper, who had been waiting patiently through it all.

"Make that three full meals each for both me and my companion," she told him. "Beef and white cheese and just give us two pitchers of ale."

The mayor coughed suddenly. Lina turned to him, still grinning.

"Did you want something too?"

"You can't be serious," he stuttered.

Lina stared at him a moment, mimicking an confused expression. "Why? Is the food that bad?" She turned to her companion. "Gourry, that table there."

Lina pointed at the table to the right of the one the thugs had gathered at. They eyed her curiously, then passed glances among each other. As the two adventurers moved toward it, the group rose and left the dining room, leaving their half-emptied mugs on the table.

The mayor stood lost in the sudden sensation of drowning that flooded his thoughts. Behind him, his two attendants whispered among themselves. Beside them, the innkeeper cleared his throat, indicating that one way or another he expected to be paid and, judging from the way he kept eying the mayor's money-pouch, the mayor knew exactly who he expected to get his coin from.


	3. The Mayor's Quandery

Chapter 2

The Mayor's Quandary

The bar maid had plopped the wooden tray down before either Lina or Gourry had even pulled back their chairs. With a few swift movements so fluid it might have been seen as one action, she moved the two pitchers and two mugs from it to the table without spilling so much as a drop. Tucking the tray under one arm, she winked at the swordsman before sauntering back into the kitchen.

Lina eyed the young woman coldly, annoyed by the casual bounce in her step. Like Lina, her hair was a reddish hue, though somewhat darker. Unlike Lina, however, she was tall, about equal in size to Gourry, and she had filled out in certain places that Lina would much rather have forgotten. Why did all the taverns and inns in the world have to hire women like that? At least Lina had the satisfaction of knowing that in a few years – when those infuriating dimples started fading to wrinkles – the wench would be shoved into the kitchen out of sight, something that Lina would never truly have to worry about.

As she slid back the chair and dropped down into it, brushing away crumbs from the last meal that had been eaten there, she realized just how little satisfaction that thought brought her. With a quiet groan, she snatched the mug and filled it. She quaffed half of the mug in one gulp than slammed it down hard enough that the two thieves in the back corner jumped at the sound.

Gourry sat down slowly, testing the sturdiness of his chair. When he felt confident that the chair would hold, he relaxed back, letting one arm hang behind him. Mayor Dastin, after paying for the food, followed shortly, sitting down quickly and without a word, his two attendants at either side.

Lina looked over the two of them, unsure of what purpose they served, but somehow amused by their presence as they continued to stare blankly. They were both too small for bodyguards – one of them was barely taller than her – and, though both carried poorly concealed dirks beneath their black vests, she couldn't bring herself to believe that either were very useful in a fight. Both had dark brown hair, worn shorter than the mayor's, a sign of rank that struck the sorceress as odd for the kingdom of Ralteague, particularly a small town like this. She would almost have thought of them as slaves from their behavior – or, more precisely, their lack of behavior – except that Ralteague had outlawed slavery around sixty years ago.

Slowly, she turned to the mayor. "So, you're the mayor of this town?"

"So I am," Dastin replied easily.

Lina carefully listened to the mayor's voice, aware that his speech was somehow different, but not quite sure how.

"And you're looking to hire a couple of mercenaries?" It was more a statement than a question.

"So I am."

The sorceress smiled, carefully concealing her pleasure at the way the sound of his voice put all the pieces into place. He articulated each word precisely, which any noble might, but unlike the stableboy and the innkeeper he also spoke through his nose and he held his m's for almost a half a second. She lifted the mug to her mouth as she carefully considered how she might make the most of the situation.

"Tell me about this town," she said before tilting her head back to drink.

"Solace is little more than a hamlet," the mayor began. "The soil isn't very good for growing crops and, except for lumber, there isn't much here worth mentioning. Most of our food is brought in from other towns or hunted for. If it weren't for the fact that this is the only town within a four day's walk in any direction, Solace probably wouldn't exist at all."

Lina nodded, putting the mug down. "A rest town."

"Indeed, so it is. And we do our best to make it comfortable for travelers."

Gourry, his brow furrowed in thought, nodded thoughtfully. Lina rolled her eyes; he was overthinking the situation.

The kitchen door swung open and the bar maid stepped out, two trays of food balanced carefully on her arms. The scent of roasted meat filled the air at her approach, and the two adventurers' mouths wetted. The bar maid slid the trays onto the table with a long practiced gracefulness, bending at the waist much lower than was really necessary for her to lay the plates out; low enough to catch Gourry's eye. The swordsman couldn't help but steal a glance at the cleavage exposed by the maid's red blouse. For a brief moment, he felt his blood burn and thought his heart might stop beating in his chest. Both sensations quickly reversed as he caught the angry glare in Lina's eyes. In a clumsy movement born out of sheer desperation, Gourry snatched his mug and buried his quickly reddening face into it, realizing instantly that he had not yet filled it. In another desperate act, he grabbed for the pitcher, spilling half as much as went in his mug onto the table as he filled it, and drank it down quickly. After he set the mug back down, he looked at his companion with a sheepish grin and a nervous chuckle.

Lina sighed and tapped her chin with one finger, noting the streams of ale meandering down his face. As the swordsman wiped his face clean, Lina turned to the bar maid.

"Tell the cook to keep it coming," she ordered.

As the maid disappeared back into the kitchen, Lina looked over the first course like a serpent observing prey caught in its coils, rubbing her hands together in anticipation, licking her lips.

"Now, as I was saying," began Mayor Dastin.

Lina held out one hand to silence him, not once taking her eyes off her food. It had been some time since she had been able to eat a decent meal and intended to savor every bit of what laid on the table before her for the entire thirty seconds it would be there.

The peas vanished first, gone in a flash of movement that left the mayor wondering if the sorceress had even bothered to chew. Half of the block of cheese followed an instant later in a single bite and the fork had sunk into the beef before the cheese had made it back to the plate. The meat's juices oozed out into her mouth with the first bite, its sweet flavor ambrosia to her palate after so many days of dried beef. The half-loaf of bread – a little stale, but not too dry – she washed down with the rest of the ale in her mug and the last of her cheese went into her mouth while her drink still wetted it.

Dastin stared, eyes so wide that one might expect them to be rolling across the table in the next moment. When the sorceress slammed her mug down, he glanced over to Gourry in time to watch him swallow the last of his meat, surprised – though very pleased – that it didn't all come back up with his tremendous belch. Glancing back over his shoulders, he saw his attendants shared his shocked expression. Slowly, he turned back to Lina, who was refilling her mug.

"As I was saying?" he dared.

Lina took a deep breath, closed her eyes and let it out again. "You were saying?"

Mayor Dastin cleared his throat before continuing. "Yes, well, we do our best to make things comfortable for travelers. Good food, pleasant accommodations and a welcoming atmosphere."

"I think you need to work on that 'welcoming atmosphere' thing," Lina said with a sly chuckle.

The mayor winced at the remark, abashed by such an impertinent interruption and insulted by the woman's mocking tone. He took a brief moment to remind himself who he was speaking to – and the many stories of what had happened to those who had aroused her ire – before speaking again, forcing a smile so false that he felt dirty for wearing it.

"Well, it doesn't bring in much money, but we do our best," he said. "We all did quite well, at least until two days ago."

"What happened?" Gourry asked.

"Bandits attacked," the mayor answered, a revelation not wholly unexpected.

"How many?" Lina asked.

"Fifteen. They came during the night and had half the town robbed before they were noticed. When they were finally spotted and the town guard called, they took a number of our young girls hostage," the mayor hesitated, his voice trembling with suppressed anger. "One of them was my own daughter. Their leader told us that if we didn't follow them, he would release the girls after a day. To make sure he kept his word, one of our guards went with them, but we haven't seen any of them since. We're all beginning to fear the worst for our children."

"You had trouble with just fifteen bandits?" Lina asked. "Your captain has to be better than any bandit and I have a hard time seeing guards under his command having difficulty handling such a situation."

The mayor shook his head. "Normal bandits might not have been an overwhelming problem, but these weren't just a rabble of common thieves; one of them was half-troll and that made things a little more complicated."

A brief pause followed as Lina considered the information. Dastin had understated the situation considerably. Human bandits she could handle with little effort; they were weak and she could usually send them into a screaming panic with a single spell. Trolls were also easily dealt with; their intelligence was on par with the ground they walked on and they were especially afraid of fire, her specialty. Half-trolls on the other hand? She had never actually seen one before, but the thought of a creature with the troll's natural abilities and, at the very least, a semi-human intelligence wasn't the most appealing of thoughts.

But, on the other hand . . .

Lina refilled her mug slowly, smiling just enough to make the mayor sweat a little. She swivelled in her chair to face the mayor, raising her drink to her mouth. A full second passed between each of the three deliberately loud gulps she took of the ale and once the mug was set back down, she looked directly into his dark eyes.

The mayor straightened up in his chair, a strange sight considering how straight he had already been sitting, and adjusted the collar on his shirt.

The two thieves in the back of the inn were rising from their seats. Lina glanced at them for only a moment, noting as they passed as far from the table where she sat as they could. Just as they passed by the front desk, the bar maid came out with two more trays, casually greeting them before they slunk out the door.

"You can handle this, can't you?" Dastin asked.

Lina's smile, as playful as a cat toying with a mouse, stretched from one ear to the other. "Of course," she replied. "For a proper payment. But that can wait until after the second course."

The mayor slid his chair aside to allow the bar maid to put the two trays down. Gourry wisely kept his eyes on the food as the woman scooped up the empty plates and replaced them. Her job finished, she nodded to Gourry, who pretended not to notice.

"Will you really be eating all that?" she asked, clearly elevating her voice to sound younger.

The only reply that the swordsman gave was to immediately begin stuffing the food into his mouth, a sight that caused the bar maid's jaw to drop open. Astounded beyond belief, she glanced under the table, expecting to see a sack or a bag that the two adventurers might have stuffed some of the food into. Seeing none, she turned questioningly to the mayor, who could only shrug. Lina snickered at the utterly overwhelmed expression on the woman's face as she turned back to the kitchen and it pleased the sorceress to see that the maid had lost the cheerful bounce in her step.

Lina devoured her meal quickly, pausing only briefly in the middle to prevent herself from breathing it into her lungs. As everything began to settle into her stomach, she emptied the last of the ale from her pitcher into her mug and washed down any remnants that might still have been in her mouth. Setting the mug down, she looked into the empty pitcher, then turned toward the kitchen.

"I thought you said this meal came with a strong ale," she shouted at the closed door. "I just emptied a whole pitcher and I'm not feeling anything." After a pause, she added, "Bring out another."

Lina turned back to the mayor.

"Now, back to the business of payment," she began. "As a standard, I charge fifteen gold pence for each bandit head that I bring back, but since one of them is half-troll, I'll have to charge an extra thirty for him. And then, of course, there are the girls; hostages cost extra, since they make the job more difficult."

Mayor Dastin had stopped listening at fifteen gold per head, suddenly feeling a very queasy sinking sensation in his gut. He had told her fifteen bandits, but he wasn't sure that there hadn't been more. On that alone, he would be paying at least two hundred and twenty-five gold. For a moment, he thought he might fall ill and he knew from Lina's expression that he must have turned pale.

"Surely, I don't want you to bring their heads back," he replied, hoping he didn't sound as desperate as he really was. "That's disgusting."

Lina's eyes narrowed dangerously. The mayor felt the blood drain from his face and worried he might shiver from the sudden waves of cold washing over him. Behind him, he heard the kitchen door opening and, pleased for any excuse to look away from that fiery glare, turned toward the bar maid who came toward the table with another pitcher. While the sorceress refilled her mug and drank, the mayor looked desperately to one of his attendants. The man grasped at the border of his vest, pulling it back enough to show the blade hidden inside. Quickly, Dastin shook his head, his eyes darting back toward Lina, who, still drinking, hadn't noticed, then to Gourry, who seemed to have had become absorbed in tracing a grain of wood on the table with his finger. He held in his relieved sigh, not wanting to press the situation anymore than he already had.

Lina put the mug down, then turned to the mayor with a disarming smile. "As you wish," she said. "Then I'll settle for four hundred gold."

Again, Dastin felt the sinking in his stomach. "Two hundred," he dared.

"Four hundred," Lina's reply came without hesitation.

"Three hundred." Dastin's voice was clearly desperate now.

"Four hundred." Again, no hesitation.

"Three hundred and fifty."

The sorceress seemed to consider this, leaning her head back, placing one finger on her chin. "No, four hundred. And I want half of it up front."

Dastin almost felt he might faint. A hurricane of thoughts swirled and thrashed about in his head, blown into a jumbled disarray. Exerting all his will not to stutter, he half-begged, "You can't expect that much. This is a rest town. How on earth would we be able to afford that much?"

At this, Lina chuckled girlishly, covering her mouth with one hand. Dastin tensed, feeling an ache in his shoulders as he wondered if he had just misstepped on the ice. The sense of drowning in freezing water did little to help.

Lina eyed the mayor sideways, the slyness of her expression causing his stomach to tie itself in knots.

"I'm not asking the town to pay," she told him. "I'm telling _you_ to pay. And I know you can, because you're not from this town."

The mayor slumped forward in his chair, his mouth gaped open.

"Your dialect and articulation are too refined for this town," the sorceress continued. "You've picked up some of the speech habits from the locals, but your accent suggests that you're from much farther south. I'll venture a guess and say that you're from the Federation of Coastal States, which would explain your two slaves. I mean attendants. Am I correct?"

The mayor drew a sharp breath, glancing back at his attendants in shock. Of course, she had guessed correctly. Lina continued to smile at him, letting him know that he had no need to answer; she was well aware that she was right. He put a hand to the right side of his head, rubbing his temple to relieve the throbbing pain behind his eyes.

Dastin sighed heavily. He'd heard the tales about her, but he had never suspected that she would have been so perceptive. He had come to Solace over ten years ago and he had thought that his accent had lessened after all that time, but still she had recognized it. He suddenly felt almost sure that she could guess how long he had been here if he pressed the matter, though he quickly decided against it.

Lina emptied her mug, then refilled it, eyeing the mayor calmly.

"I'm not going to pretend to know why you chose to come to this town," she said. "It's not very important. What _is_ important is that you pay me every penny that I demand. And the next time you feel like playing games with me, remember the simple truth of the universe: I always win."

This time, the mayor could not suppress his shudder. The tone of her voice retained its even quality and her smile, so confident it bordered on arrogance, almost seemed friendly, but her eyes told him different. Those flaming orbs said, with the utmost clarity, 'I am not amused.'

Dastin abruptly slid his chair back. Clearing his throat and rising to his feet, he nodded politely to her.

"Four hundred it is," he said through his teeth. "Two hundred now and the rest when you return with the girls."

"Have it ready and be waiting for us at your home," Lina said to the mayor's back as he slipped quickly out of the inn, his two attendants following at his heals. As the bar maid came out of the kitchen again, Lina turned to her partner. "Gourry, we have a job."

The swordsman nodded, sipping from his mug. Pleased with herself and how she had handled the situation, Lina emptied her own cup in one large gulp, slamming it down with a triumphant burst of laughter.

The bar maid stepped up to the table and smiled at the two of them. "You sure ran circles around the mayor, so you did."

Lina shrugged. "He was being an ass."

"Aye," the woman conceded, "mayhap he was."

The bar maid laid the trays down, once again bending much too far. This time, after putting up with the mayor's silly games, the sight of it was an insult too far for Lina. Her fist struck the table hard enough to dent the wood and the bar maid, startled, nearly dropped the plates.

"If you keep flaunting yourself like that," the sorceress yelled, her face turning a brilliant crimson hue, "then you won't have anything left to flaunt when I finish with you! Understand!?"

The woman trembled under the hot rage burning in the sorceress's eyes. Leaving the trays on the table, the bar maid whirled around and, whimpering, fled from the room. Satisfied, Lina pulled the tray closer to her, sinking her fork into the meat. Gourry watched the bar maid disappear into the kitchen, then turned back to Lina, disappointed.

"Not a word, Gourry," she said firmly.

Not a word was said.

The clouds had completely broken up by the time the two adventurers left the inn, and the late afternoon day sun had dried the rain. Rubbing her now slightly bloated belly, Lina looked up into the sky and let the warm sunlight sink into her skin. With a stretch and a lazy yawn, she turned toward her companion.

"Well, that was certainly worth the time, wasn't it?" she said.

"One of the mayor's attendants was about to draw a knife on you," he replied calmly.

Lena tapped her lip thoughtfully at that. "If he had, he would have learned just how much good that would have done against your sword, wouldn't he?"

Gourry nodded, noting the sudden flush of red coming over Lina's face. The sorceress turned back and started toward the stable, wobbling slightly on her feet. Suddenly, her knees buckled and she started to fall. The swordsman leaped forward, catching her before she hit the ground and lifting her back to her feet. Leaning on the wall of the inn for support, Lina giggled girlishly.

"I guess that ale was stronger than I thought," she mused, patting her cheeks. "Next time, don't let me drink so much, okay?"

Lina tried to stand, but found she still couldn't support herself. The blood that had rushed into her face made her head burn in the heat of the day. She shook her head violently to clear it and when that failed, she snatched the water pouch from Gourry's belt and wetted her face. Handing it back to the swordsman, she tried to stand again, this time managing to stay up, though she wavered from side to side.

Gourry watched, ready to grab her the moment she started to fall. "Are you alright?"

Lina nodded. "The stable," she muttered. "Let's get going."

The sorceress glanced around, a little disoriented by blur of moving images around her. Again she slapped her cheeks, harder this time. It helped a little – she could at least see how to get to the stable – and so she started on, her companion following closely behind her.

Gourry opened the stable door and Lina half-walked, half-staggered in. The air in the stable was stale and thick with the scent of hay and horses, even though theirs was the only animal currently residing. The stableboy, busy brushing the horse, turned to look at them, greeting them in a cheerful, if empty manner. Lina swaggered over toward him, taking hold of the saddle hanging next to the stall and put her hand on his head.

"Was one of the girls your sister?" she asked.

The boy nodded.

"Don't worry," she said, her grin appearing almost goofy enough to make the boy laugh. "I'm sure you'll be seeing her again soon."

The stableboy's eyes lit up and his smile suddenly became genuine. "Really, ma'am?"

Lina nodded. "But don't call me ma'am. Gourry?"

The sorceress moved aside to let her companion take the saddle and put it on the horse. She sat down on a stool and reached into a pocket. Finding nothing, she reached into a different one. Again, nothing.

Lina put a finger to her chin in thought. Where had she put it? She had found it in the ruins near Dragon's Peak and she was quite certain she had kept it. She slapped her forehead as she remembered. She snatched one of the pouches at Gourry's belt and opened it up, withdrawing a pendant. Fastening its gold chain around her neck and holding the small ruby in one hand, she waved her other hand over it in a mystic gesture. The stableboy came closer, wondering what she was doing - Gourry groaned, wondering just how drunk Lina really was to be showing off so flamboyantly.

Outside, the sky grew suddenly dark, as though thick clouds had passed before the sun. As the sorceress spoke, her voice became harsh and guttural and the very air around them seemed to tremble at the sound of it. Frightened, the stableboy stepped back away from her, cowering behind the swordsman, who seemed not to notice the sudden change.

"_Ilea'ahr,_

_La'tsphil coran vexta_

_Xukha aa'es siicor._

**Di-to-ku-shi-fa-i!**_"_

A hellish wind blasted through the stable and it was almost a shock that it did not blow open the door and all the windows. It swirled around the sorceress, causing her hair and cape to fly up before it passed back out the same way it came in, though no one could say exactly where that had been. In her hand, the pendant began to glow with an unwholesome and angry red light. The fire of magic surged through her blood, purging it of all the alcohol she had just drunk, replacing it with a much more pleasurable sensation; the sensation of pure power. The light faded to a dim glow and Lina rose to her feet.

Daring a peek around Gourry, the stableboy looked at Lina with an expression of horror and amazement. Lina gave the boy a sly wink and held up one finger.

"That'll be our little secret," she said.

The boy nodded.

With a smile, Lina climbed up onto the horse. Gourry backed Rusher out of the stall and turned it around, leading it out of the stable.

"First we stop by the mayor's house for our advance," Lina said. "Then, we set out."

Gourry grunted in reply, then mounted the animal. As the two set off down the road, the stableboy watched them leave, a mix of amazement, horror and relief on his face.


	4. Wanderer

Chapter 3

Wanderer

Zelgadis Greywords stood beside the road, arms folded across his chest, looking upon the settlement before him, his grey eyes holding the sight with a hawkish intensity. On the flat plain, the walled, fortress-like city stood before him like a mountain, a thick column of black smoke – from a smith's forge, he guessed from the smell – rising above it.

All around him, the world teemed with life. Overhead, a kestrel soared on the warm updraft, spying the subtle movements of the knee-high grass that betrayed the hiding mouse that darted to the safety of its burrow. Though he never took his eyes off the city, he heard flutter of wings as the bird of prey dived, followed by the rodent's shrill and frightened cries as the raptor's talons tore into its flesh, its beak closing around and snapping its spine. Though several meters behind where he stood, Zelgadis felt the buffeting of air as the bird shot upward again; his bluish-grey, granite flesh did not dull the sensitivity of skin to even the slightest touch.

Not far from the road, a brook flowed casually past, its clear, bubbling waters filled with small fish. The reeds at the stream's bank whispered amongst each other. If the breeze he felt moving through his silvery hair, already imperceptible to most other people, were just a bit stronger, he might have been able to make out their words, though he suspected it was little more than idle prattle. Plants that grew near moving water were always gossiping about something.

Somewhere off in the distance, he could faintly feel something moving along the ground, but a mole tunneling through the ground beneath him interfered with vibrations. He tapped his foot against the ground and the creature stopped just long enough for him to distinguish the source. A few kilometers north of where he stood, a carriage – drawn by four horses and with one wheel slightly loose – was moving toward the city.

The city . . .

Zelgadis searched through his memory for the city's name. The effort was wasted, of course; he had wandered aimlessly for so long that he was not sure which kingdom he was in anymore, much less what city he had come to. Retracing his steps did no good either. He had left the Kataart Mountains some four or five months to the north, yet another lead which had proven false, but he had not traveled due south the entire time. Nomadic tribes of beast-men had forced him to take a fairly meandering route. The band of gypsies he had traveled with after that had not followed a strict course either, nor did they take much notice of any town names that they passed. He had parted ways with them nearly two months past and had since lost himself. In all his wanderings, he had somehow managed to miss any other settlements until finally coming upon this walled city. Now, in sight of another human city, he felt oddly curious about his location.

He pulled his tattered traveler's cloak tighter and placed the cloth mask up over his nose to cover the majority of his face, drawing his hood over his head. With his cloth-wrapped hands and the two daggers at his belt – he refused to conceal his weapons for any reason – he would no doubt attract attention, but it would be far less than if he openly displayed his monstrous appearance. He had no intentions of staying in the city for long and saw no need to cause a panic.

The sun was at its peak in the sky and with no clouds to stop it, it beat down on him furiously. There were no trees along the road – or even in sight of the road for some distance – a fact which he lamented. Even though his entire body radiated with the heat, so much so that he could feel the grass wilt beneath his feet, the spirit of each blade crying out for him to move away, it had nothing to do with a desire for shade. His body possessed an extraordinary resistance to heat and only temperatures hot enough to melt stone gave him any discomfort, and even that was merely from an obstinate sense of self-preservation. Rather than be bothered by the complaints from the grass, he stepped onto the road, where the continual passing of carriages and travelers had created a permanent trail of hard packed dirt too thick for all but the most stubborn of weeds to grow through.

No the heat was not the problem. He felt discomforted by the lack of trees for the sense of isolation it brought him. Trees were silent observers of the world, steadfast in their constant vigilance, and from their incredible longevity came a timeless wisdom that he was loath to be away from. Cut off from that, he felt his senses, sharp as they were, were truly limited.

Still, curiosity overpowered his other urges; the need to know his location was stronger than his need to be surrounded by the earth's wisdom. So, undaunted by the nakedness of open spaces, he continued toward the city.

The wall surrounding the city was more than two meters of solid stone, strong enough to repel even a direct hit from a catapult, perhaps several, and the contingent of archers marching their rounds along its top would certainly make it a challenge for invaders to get close enough to effectively use one. Zelgadis could see only one guard at the gate, leaning lazily against the wall with his spear propped against his shoulder, though he believed there were more, probably in a small room on the other side working the mechanism to open and close the iron-grid gateway.

As he drew near, the guard stood straight, holding his weapon at ready for defense. The guard did not expect an attack, as Zelgadis could quite clearly see from his lazy stance. No doubt somewhere in the back of the soldier's mind, he believed that his armor would protect him from the first strike, giving him the time he needed to ready himself properly. It was a dangerous assumption, one that would prove fatal if the wanderer intended to fight. The first strike would have gone for the weak spot under the joint where the arm connected to the shoulder and while the guard staggered from surprise and pain, the second strike would come across the exposed throat.

Zelgadis brushed this thought away; he doubted the situation would become that extreme. Calmly, he approached, stopping just outside the open gate. The guard eyed him, more from curiosity than suspicion and he seemed to take more interest in his tattered clothes than the two daggers he wore. The traveler noted the sweat dripping down the soldier's face from beneath his black helmet and thought for a moment about how unusual he must have looked comparatively; hot as the day was, not a drop of sweat dampened his own garments, nor did he show any signs of fatigue from the great distance he had traveled – without food or supplies. Of these details, the guard seemed either not to notice or not to care and Zelgadis caught himself wondering why such a careless person was guarding the gate.

"What city is this?" he asked quietly, his voice almost a whisper.

"Dubuon."

Zelgadis noted a faint odor of cheap beer on the guard's breath as he answered. Clearly, the canteen hanging at the soldiers side was not filled with water.

Nodding, he passed beneath the gate into the city. He expected the soldiers to stop and question him, becoming more and more amazed that they did not the further he left them behind. He had forgotten how unobservant most humans were after all the time he had traveled alone.

Dubuon was the former capital of Ralteague. Zelgadis could not remember off the top of his head how long ago the capital had been moved, but, however long it had been, the city had remained the center of trade for the kingdom. Walking steadily down the middle of the cobblestone road – he did not want to be cramped in with people who crowded on either side of it – he saw many large buildings where various merchants had headquartered themselves. Once, a wagon loaded with goods came down the road and he was forced to step aside, casually passing by without paying the slightest attention to the shouts from the driver.

What amazed him most of all was that any human could stand to live there at all. The cries of local merchants selling their wares on some nearby street, not to mention the constant babble of citizens, made the streets impossibly confusing for him to navigate. Worst of all, however, was the smell; rotten garbage and refuse lay fermenting in the gutters at the sides of the street waiting for the rain to wash it down into the sewers beneath the city. The sickly-sweet stench was so abominable he felt convinced that the people of the city were mad to live with it and it was all he could do to keep himself from retching. There was also the smoke of a forge-fire somewhere, which did little to help. As he choked down the stale, fetid air, he wondered why the people didn't simply fall over dead in the streets.

It was the wall, of course, that made it so bad. It forced the people to live so crowded together and kept the air from flowing freely through the city. If the city guard were only better trained, there would have been no need for a wall, which would have been better anyway. The army that came to siege the city and those walls would become a deathtrap, only making it easier for the invaders to cut off the city from its supplies, which he doubted were actually grown there. All this because the city guard was to lazy to correctly train its guards for defense.

As he made his way down the streets, analyzing the city's defenses, the slothfulness of the scant patrol making its rounds along the top of the wall made his stomach sink into a sickly pit. It seemed, he supposed, that too many years of peace had given the city defenders a false sense of security and allowed them to fall slack. He made note of a spot where cracks in the wall had allowed vines to grow through, which he could have used to leave under the cover of darkness if the need arose and, with a full ten seconds to spare between the patrol, such an escape could have been made with relative ease. While any attempt to take the city by force might have been a time-consuming endeavor, an attack by the use of stealth could have defeated the city in a matter of hours. He almost felt pity at the sight.

Almost.

With more than enough his fill of the pathetic display of defense, he turned a corner past what appeared to be a clothing shop – the clothes on display at the front window completely lacked any sort of functionality – and went further into the city. Save the merciful escape from the sight of that wall, little changed as he entered the intertwining streets of the city's interior. Vibrantly colored shop signs and banners hung from almost every building and the people dressed in clothing that made him think of exotic birds showing off their plumage in mating season. Having traveled out in the wilds for so long, he found this sudden assortment of unusual tones and hues quite distracting and somehow felt that he was being encouraged to let his guard down and, by completely unconscious reaction, he heightened his awareness of his surroundings until he could count the number of people on either side of him with his peripheral vision.

Coming the city square, he quickly turned onto a street headed northward, immediately repelled and slightly shaken by the utter confusion the gathered crowds provided. Shaking his head in disappointment, he promised himself that he would never enter another city this large if it could at all be avoided; such an overstimulation of the senses was simply not conductive to a healthy state of mind.

Toward the end of that street, the crowds thinned out, lightening the din of chaos around him – much to his relief – and then, stretching up before him, there appeared a large building of oddly gothic architecture, gargoyles grinning and grimacing impishly down on him from their roof-top perches. From the pointed archway that covered the great double-doors hung a sign decorated with the image of a book and quill and the word library in baroque lettering. The crusting of the red bricks and subtle flexion at the base of the window glass suggested that it had been constructed two hundred years or more past; Ralteague's Great Library, or so the kingdom liked to call it. For a moment, the thought crossed his mind that he remembered hearing the library had moved with the capital, but why he should have thought this, or why it should be wrong, were not matters he gave any particular importance and he easily shut them out of his mind.

At the stone steps in front of the library waited an exquisite carriage with four black horses yoked to it, two well-dressed footman standing beside it, talking casually amongst themselves. As Zelgadis approached, he caught a little of their conversation, from which he gathered they were the escort of some court noble from the Kingdom of Sailune, but they quieted when he came to a stop beside the carriage. More for curiosity than anything, he glanced at the carriage and noted that the front wheel on the left side was slightly loose, then he looked again to the library.

For the first time in many months, Zelgadis felt a trace of hope that perhaps he might find some way to undo the magic that had so monstrously reshaped his body. Checking that hope, he tightened up his cloak, drawing the hood further forward, and started up the stone steps to the ornately carved entrance. He paused at the threshold for a moment, focusing his mind and relaxing his body; though he doubted that it would be noticed, he dared not risk arousing any suspicion from showing tension. Taking a deep breath, he pressed his palm against the great double-doors, the dry squeal of rusty hinges echoing in the spacious hallway as it opened.

Sitting at a desk before a set of drawers, a young woman with blonde hair and a red dress looked up at the door as the wanderer approached calmly and with an uncanny grace that she had seen only a few times, even among the most stately of nobles visiting the library. He stopped at the desk and immediately captured her attention with his gentle, yet somehow incredibly firm stare. He nodded to her casually, locks of silver hair peeking out from beneath his hood, then spoke in a soft voice, matching the dialect of the region so naturally that it never once crossed her mind to suspect he had lived anywhere but that city his whole life.

"Good afternoon, my lady," he said. "Might this library have any information on chimeras?"

The librarian rose from her seat and turned to the drawers behind her, opening the one with "C" on the label and looked through the cards. The organizational system she used had been developed in Sailune, then adopted by all the surrounding kingdoms several decades ago. Why he knew this, he couldn't quite recall, though he suspected he had learned it on his travels with his former master, Rezo, but it mattered little in the end and he gave it no more thought. At last, the librarian found what she was searching for, drawing the proper card from the drawer.

"The book you're looking for is entitled _Broken Mobius Chain_, by Master Elmekia, chapter five. It would be in the magic section on the second floor." As she was putting the card away, a sudden thought occurred to her and she quickly turned around. "But it's locked and you can't get in without . . ."

But the stranger was already gone and looking about the hall, she could find no sign that he had ever been there to begin with. As she closed the drawer and took her seat, she wondered why she had answered his question without asking on whose authority he would be allowed into the library and whether or not she should send someone to look for him. To the former, she had no explanation to give herself and to the latter, after a second glance to be sure that no one had seen, she decided against, not wishing to bring such a mistake the attention of her employers without a reasonable explanation.

Zelgadis, who had started away from the her the moment she had opened the drawer, started up the marble steps. The library's resounding silence and wide hallways made even the slightest sound seem as loud as a thunderclap, but his footsteps were silent as a falling feather as he reached the second floor. He kept himself to the far side of the hall, ready to duck behind the supporting pillars if any of the staff should chance to pass by - if any had, they would have seen nothing more than shadows - but none ever did. This came as no surprise; he assumed, and rightly so, that most of the city's inhabitants were illiterate and that even in a library of such prodigious size, there was little need to keep a large staff. Filling the halls of the strangely labyrinth-like structure with guards would have cost far more than it was worth.

In a darkened and dusty corner of the building, Zelgadis came upon a closed door, sealed with a heavy, iron padlock. He took a brief moment to examine the it, noting that, although of master workmanship, it was nothing more than a mechanical lock, completely non-magical in nature and hardly a noticeable inconvenience to him. Taking in his hand, he lightly blew into the keyhole, listening to the sound of his breath echoing in its inner walls. Three tumblers; a stout lock, but nothing overly difficult. He took a roll of cloth from inside his cloak and unrolled it on the ground before him, briefly scanning the set of thin, curved rods, before selecting two. In they went, twisting and probing at the tumblers, until three soft cracks and the lock fell open. Putting away his tools, he removed the lock, opened the door and entered, quietly closing it behind him.

The small room had one window facing west and a large table in the center, its walls lined with shelves of books. Placing the lock on the table, Zelgadis searched the room, ascending the ladder to the top shelf to find the tome he sought. As his fingers touched the leather binding, a surge of power raced through him and he pulled his hand away quickly, silently cursing. For a moment, the book gave off a glow of raw arcane power, which swiftly faded to an invisible aura, the very air around it trembling. Zelgadis eyed the book warily. He'd seen this reaction once before, when he had tried to touch one of Rezo's books. At that time he'd thought it was some form of protection spell, but in a primal corner of his mind, instinct now suggested that he might have been wrong. Still, it was a mystery that existed beside the point and, undaunted, he took the grimoire again, this time shielding his hand with his own spiritual energy, and pulled it from the shelf. Without a moment's hesitation, he climbed down the ladder and placed the book on the table.

The book's title, _Broken Mobius Chain_, had been embroidered into the leather binding, and Zelgadis thought it odd that a wizard would have given such an elaborate title to his own book, or even give it a title at all. He suspected that it was a transcription of some ancient wizard's research journal, to which a title had been added at a later time, but he didn't bother giving the matter any more thought than that. Carefully opening the book to the middle, he turned the pages slowly, one at a time, noting the elaborately curving script of the transcriber's handwriting, until he came to the fifth chapter. Much of it was a lengthy discourse on the magical nature of chimeras, filled with technical definitions, diagrams of tools, magical symbols and procedures and incantations. He skimmed the chapter, uninterested in such details, slowing only a slightly at the third section, where it began to detail the two methods of creating chimera, the second of which - by the fusion of multiple creatures - he took particular interest; it was the method by which his body had been formed. He read it briefly, searching for some means of undoing the process, but found only a brief passage at the end.

'It is safe to assume that this process is irreversible. I have tried multiple times to separate subjects after fusion, but only one such experiment was successful; however, neither subject survived this procedure.'

Zelgadis closed the book and was silent. Outside, the sun slipped behind the highest peak of the Wailing Mountains on the western horizon, dimming the room, just as the book's revelation cast a dark shadow over the wanderer's hopes. Yet, he still felt some hope; if it was possible to separate a chimera into the creatures it had been created from, perhaps it was also possible for the subjects to survive if the procedure was done correctly. Now, a new set of questions arose in his mind, questions that he might be able to answer if he could find any records of the experiments of this 'Master Elmekia.'

"Master Elmekia."

He spoke the name aloud and in the darkened corridors of his memory, it struck a chord that echoed with a distant familiarity. He was certain that he had heard the name before, but where and when? Not recently, of that he knew for certain. More than likely, it had been on his travels with Rezo, when he had still been human, but that time seemed so far behind him now, like a dream long forgotten.

The creaking door latch pulled the wanderer from his thoughts, his eyes falling upon the opening door and the lithe figure who entered. His spring-green tunic matched his eyes, as the black leggings did his long hair, kept from his eyes by a dark-blue band. Over that, he wore a crimson cape laced at the hem with silver, though, in the shadows, the brilliant red seemed to adopt a brownish tint. On the middle finger of his right hand rested a gold ring inlaid with a ruby that, despite being cut into the shape of a dog curled up to sleep, did not appear to be a gaudy ornament because of its remarkable craftsmanship. No, Zelgadis realized upon careful inspection, it wasn't a dog, but a fox, and not sleeping, but perhaps laying in wait for prey to fall into its trap. This observation seemed odd to him, yet no matter how hard he tried to brush aside the notion, he could not bring himself to see any other possible meaning in the subtle artistic expressions of its carving.

The noble - as Zelgadis knew he was, and an ambitious one at that, for he carried himself with the overwhelming self-confidence of one who had been born to poverty and risen to great wealth - sauntered into the room so casually, his head slightly upturned and smile completely self-satisfied, that the vagabond took an immediate disliking to him. The two saw each other at the exact moment and when their gazes met directly, Zelgadis stared for the first time in many years into a gaze as unreadable as his own. Quickly, the expression changed to one of surprise (genuine, the wanderer thought), then just as quickly became a pleasant smile, which the noble followed with a polite bow, bending slightly at the waist.

"I didn't realize that someone was already here," he said, flawless and smooth articulation in his baritone voice.

The dark-haired man closed the door behind him and then turned the bookshelf, examining each moth-ridden tome with no apparent purpose or goal. As he paced the room, he kept his hands clasped behind his back, out of his mantle and in clear view, a gesture which seemed to be a declaration of harmless intent. Still, Zelgadis kept his gaze fixed on the man with the unblinking focus of a hunting falcon, his grey eyes darkening as the ever-whispering voice of distrust breathed into his ear. The noble kept to himself in contemplation, eyeing the books one by one until something appeared to catch his interest. He drew the text from the shelf so swiftly, his cape fluttering only slightly as he did, that the wanderer was almost surprised to see a book in his hands when he turned about, reading in the remaining light that came in through the open window as he flipped through the pages. For a moment, it seemed as though all thought of company had fled the noble's mind, then, stopping midway through the book, he suddenly looked up at Zelgadis, one brow slightly raised.

"You don't look like noble to me," he stated.

Zelgadis's eyes narrowed dangerously, his mind emptying of though and emotion as he prepared himself for whatever action might be required in the next few seconds. The man noted the expression and, glancing briefly down at the book in his hands, raised one with the palm out defensively.

"No, no, no. I meant nothing at all, I merely remarked on what appeared to be obvious. I have no intention of summoning the library staff." He looked back down at the book again, reading it even as he continued the inane babble so common among the upper class. "Personally, I don't believe that knowledge should be hoarded by the wealthy. Such a treasure as this should be shared even among the lowliest of commoners. Alas, that is not my decision to make, at least for now, so the injustice will be allowed to continue for a time."

At this, Zelgadis felt certain that the noble was from Sailune, probably the one who had arrived in the carriage waiting outside the building. He had never heard any noble speak of injustice over little things, even as they referred to those below their station as 'the lowliest of commoners.' Yet, there was something very different about this one, something so intangible that even in his own thoughts he could not quite grasp what his instincts told him. Though clearly much more a scholar and much less a crusader than any of the Sailune royal court than any Zelgadis had ever known, even that did not make him seem so unusual as that unnameable quality that slithered from wanderer's grasp even as he closed his hands on it.

The noble looked up at Zelgadis, again with such suddenness that he was almost taken off-guard. "I apologize. I've gone on so and I haven't even properly introduced myself; dreadfully rude of me." The noble made a sweeping gesture with one hand that brought his cape out in front of him as he bowed, yet, the vagabond noticed, his movements were so careful and so precise that not a single page from the book in his other hand so much as fluttered as he did so. "My name is Zorron. I am a courtier on diplomatic business for the Holy Kingdom of Sailune. I have come to collect records on Ralteague's history for the purpose of solving certain border disputes between our nations."

As the man who called himself Zorron spoke, Zelgadis found himself overwhelmed by how naturally the words came, so natural that, if it had been anyone else, the wanderer might have thought it rehearsed, yet from this man it made it seem all the more convincing. What was more, neither in tone, nor in posture was there any arrogance or pride, but rather it suggested utmost humility, which even Zelgadis found himself hard-pressed to doubt, mistrusting though he was. Apparently finished with his lengthy declaration of intent, the man who called himself Zorron returned to the book in hand, turning the page and becoming absorbed in what he read, his eyes racing over the words with fascinating speed. The moment passed with a brief silence, then Zelgadis saw the noble's chest rise slightly, drawing breath to speak again. He knew the question coming, and it was not one he wished to answer, so he quickly turned the focus of the conversation back on the noble.

"These records," he said, just as the man who called himself Zorron opened his mouth to speak, "you would find them in the magic section?"

For a moment, the man seemed distracted and more than a little confused, staring up at the vagabond with his brow furrowed. He recovered quickly and, almost laughing, answered, "Oh, no, of course not. I've already found what I came for and I am merely browsing. A good friend of mine, my advisor in fact, has some passing skill in magic and I thought he might perhaps be interested in knowing what the Great Library has to offer." He paused, as if considering whether or not it needed further explanation, then, deciding it did, added, "My advisor is tied up with personal business at the moment, so he could not be with me."

The man who called himself Zorron took one last glance at the book, then closed it, a dust cloud rising up out of it, and replaced it on the shelf. After another, less gracious bow, he turned from the wanderer and opened the door. Just as he was leaving, Zelgadis spoke up once more.

"Your carriage," the noble glanced back at him over his shoulder. "You should have your footman look at the front left wheel before you ride in it again."

The man who called himself Zorron, stood beneath the doorframe a moment and eyed the wanderer suspiciously - and this time, Zelgadis was certain that it was truly what the noble felt- then turned and left. The clang of the closing door echoed in the library's empty silence and before the sound had faded completely, the wanderer rose from his chair, crossed the room and drew the book he had been reading from the shelf.

_The Great Artifacts and Other Magical Legends_, the title read. The noble was cunning, but Zelgadis, who had long ago found paranoia to be far more addicting than the strongest opiates, missed not a single sign. For whatever reason, that man had not wanted him to suspect that his interest in that particular book was more than in passing and instinct now cried loudly that he should see the book for himself. Opening the text, he thumbed through the pages to where he thought the noble had been reading from. He could not have known for sure what he was looking for and intended to read through as much as he could before the last light of the sun faded, but a certain passage caught his attention and he gave no thought to anything else.

'The Key of the Universe' the passage's heading read. 'This giant crystal baffled even the Great Sages and, for all the study, it origin is still lost in time. The greatest study on the powers and qualities of this artifact was done by Master Elmekia, who learned much from it about the nature of magic and with its powers, crafted many of the spells widely used by sorcerers today. He claimed to have even come to understand with completeness the rolling sea of chaos known as the Lord of Nightmares, but would never himself explain all of his findings. Nearing his death, he disappeared, taking the crystal and all of his books with him. To this day, none know where the Key of the Universe resides.'

Zelgadis could not conjure from his mind the memory the last time he had smiled, but as one spread across his stony face, he now knew why the name of Master Elmekia had seemed familiar to him. It had been many years ago, before his transformation, but he remembered it now as if only a brief moment had passed since then. On one of the many journeys that his master had taken him, Rezo had visited a tiny village resting in the shadow of the Wailing Mountains, called Riatavin, seeking an ancient artifact that had long been lost and the journal of the great sorcerer who had studied it.

The sorcerer had been known as Master Elmekia.

Zelgadis set the book back on the shelf as the sky darkened to blackness; outside, the lamps had long since been lighted and now cast strange shadows about the almost empty streets. He started for the door, but hesitated a moment, looking back to the book he had left on the table. The book of legends hadn't reacted to his touch the way _Broken Mobius Chain _had, nor had any of the others he had touched while searching for it. That one had great power stored in its pages, power that he suddenly felt might bring disastrous consequences if it were to be gained by the wrong person. If he could have gotten into the library so easily, he was certain that a power-hungry sorcerer could as well. Without a second's hesitation, he pulled a cloth from a pocket in his cloak and carefully wrapped it, then, still feeling its power reach out for him, he wrapped it in a second cloth, then tucked it beneath his cloak and left, slipping past the librarian and staff without ever being seen.

Outside, Zorron and his footmen stood at the carriage inspecting the wheel. As Zelgadis passed by, the noble hailed him, running over to him. The wanderer stopped, but didn't turn to face hin. Zorron walked around him without showing any sign of being insulted.

"I want to thank you," the noble said. "If you hadn't mentioned the wheel to me, we would have never noticed. Who knows what might have happened if we had set out tomorrow without having it fixed."

Zelgadis nodded but said nothing.

"Will you being staying the night in this town, then?" Zorron continued. "If you would accompany me to the inn, I would gladly pay for your room. It is the least I can do and I would that we speak more, if it pleases you."

Zelgadis had no desire to say anything more to this noble, nor would he have stayed the night in the town and risk discovery if he had. Though he had little reason, he refused to trust the man and only wished to be gone from him. He said nothing, but only shook his head.

"You are certain?" Zorron seemed truly disappointed. "The gates will be closed soon and there's no telling what manner of monsters may be out there in the darkness."

"I fear no monsters," Zelgadis replied. "I must leave. The road before me is long and I've miles to go before I sleep."

With a polite bow, Zelgadis turned on his heel and walked away.


	5. Strange Occurances

Sorry for keeping the few of you interested in my work waiting. I can't believe it's been a whole year since I last updated. Can you believe it took me a whole year to revise one and a half chapters and write another? Well, my job leaves me so drained of energy that I am quite undesirous to really put forth mental effort on anything. But not to worry, as soon as my job pays my tuition reimbursement this summer, I plan on quiting for a while and then find a job that doesn't try to suck my soul out through my ears.

* * *

Chapter 5

Strange Occurrences

She heard a voice. Sylphiel peered into the darkness, straining to see who had spoken, but she could see nothing, not even her own body. A moment passed in silence and the maiden began to wonder if she had truly heard anything, or if she had just imagined it. Again, she heard the voice calling out of the black, soft, little more than a whisper and unintelligible, as though the darkness itself sought to stifle the sound. Sylphiel turned her ear toward the sound to listen and this time, she heard the small voice clearly.

_Sylphiel_.

"I am here," she answered it.

Somewhere ahead of her, she saw a point of light. Though distant, the brightness of that dot seemed to defy the sun itself in the stygian blackness. Without a moment's hesitation, she stepped toward it and all became white.

"Wouldn't you agree?"

Sylphiel blinked, looking up into the face of High Priest Eldar Fayne. For all the similarity in appearance between he and Radin, the high priest might as well have been Radin's father instead of merely his uncle. Standing next to each other, the two were almost a mirror image. Though the high priest stood a little taller, it was barely enough to notice, and he had his nephew's hair and face - if not for Eldar's short, carefully groomed beard, most would have found it difficult to tell one from the other.

Next to him, Martyn Eamon, the leader of the Runegloam acting troupe, stood eyeing her expectantly, his startlingly green eyes sparkling as he looked her over.. He was taller than both Radin and Eldar by at least a head, with broad shoulders and a thick, muscular build, despite the lines of age creasing his face and the gray hair slowly taking over his head and beard. He was dressed in his showman's outfit, a multicolored tunic with a red and green cape draped over one side.

Behind them, several members of the traveling actors' guild were busy unloading materials and props from the wagons, while others were about searching for the best place to set up the stage for their upcoming performance on the Summer Star's Eve. The Rungloam troupe came to all the great festivals to perform, probably because Sairaag proved to be one of the more generous audiences in the Empire. The people of Sairaag appreciated the troupe just as much, for the performance of such a prestigious group drew a crowd from all over the country, meaning more people to visit the local shops for business.

Out on the field, children were playing games and laughing under the watchful eye of the initiate priests, which gave the mothers a chance to get their housework done before the festival day arrived. Many of the towns merchants were negotiating amongst themselves to get the best possible places to set up their own stalls. With only four days left before the celebration, the city was more lively than ever. And this festival promised to be something special, for rumor had it that the neighboring sorcerer's guild was allowing one of it's members to put on a performance of his own. Yes, this year's festival would be talked about for generations to come.

As she stood there, Sylphiel suddenly became aware that the high priest had been speaking to her and that all three of them were waiting for her to reply, yet she couldn't recall the subject of his question. She tried to think, she simply could not remember. After an uncomfortable moment passed, she smiled weakly and nodded.

"I should've liked to set the stage up around Flagoon itself," Martyn went on, speaking to Eldar, "but with all the other activities that always go on near it, our pyrotechnical team doesn't think it would be safe for some the special effects we'll be using in our performance." The high priest was nodding in agreement as the director continued. "So instead, I thought we'd set up our stage with no background and have our audience seated facing the Great Tree, so that they could see it. That way, it could still be made a part of the performance."

"An excellent idea," Fayne replied.

As the two continued their discussion, Sylphiel only half-listened, her hollow gaze upward. Judging from the sun in the sky, it was a little before midday, but the maiden couldn't think of what she had been doing all day. She remembered that she had performed her morning duties already, and she remembered going with Radin and his uncle to oversee the preparations for the festival, but it all seemed to be as fuzzy as the clouds that dotted the sky.

Seeing the shadow come over her, Radin put his arm over her shoulder and leaned his head close.

"Are you okay?" he whispered to her. "You seem distracted."

Sylphiel regarded him warmly, a smile coming easily to her face as she looked into his eyes. Concern creased his brow, as though he could feel her mood, and it reminded her of how much he cared for her - and how much she cared for him. She kissed him gingerly on the cheek and a light flush of color came to them.

"Have I ever told you how much I love you?" she asked.

Radin caressed her check lovingly. "Without ever using words," he answered.

Sylphiel held back an amused chuckle. It was something that didn't sound anything at all like him to say; obviously he'd been begging Gawyn for lessons on how to woo women again. He would never have as smooth a tongue as the young poet, but he kept trying and that was all that mattered.

"You're alright then?" he asked again.

Sylphiel nodded. "It must just be all this excitement over the festival," she told him. "It's making me act silly."

"You've never been silly."

This time Sylphiel did chuckle, tilting her head slightly with an impish grin. Seeing it, Radin paused, wondering what it meant.

"Is that a fact?" the maiden said slyly. "What about that time I went chasing after Gourry?"

Radin's face colored as he remembered the event she spoke of. Two years ago, she had left Sairaag to find her old childhood friend, even studying a little of black magic in an effort to impress him. Afraid of losing her, Radin had indeed called her a silly girl then, had tried so hard to keep her from leaving, but Sylphiel had been too smitten with the blonde swordsman to understand the intent of his frustration and told him then that she hated him. When she left, Radin had been almost sure he would never see her again.

"Well," Radin stammered, "I guess we can all be silly sometimes."

Sylphiel gently put two fingers over his lips, almost laughing as she did. He had grown so much since she had first met him, yet with just the right comment, she could still draw out a boyishness from him. Perhaps that was why she enjoyed teasing him so. She would never have acted like that toward Gourry, but then, she would have been too afraid of scaring him away. Not at all like Radin; with Radin, she felt she could be herself, that she could be a real woman. When she had come back, broken-hearted from the realization that Gourry did not have the feelings for her that she wanted, that his heart already belonged to someone else, Radin had been the first to give her comfort. She had fallen so deeply in self-pity that even then she couldn't see how much he cared. How many times she had asked him to leave her alone, she did not recall, but night after night, he still had come to her, brought her food even when she would not eat it, expressed his own sorrow that she had been hurt. Some time later, she learned from one of the other temple maidens that he had taken it upon himself to fulfil her temple duties on top of his own while she had been away and even continued them during the weeks that she grieved and never once uttered a word that so much as hinted at being a complaint. Everything that was his to give, he gave to her freely. No, she could not drive him from her, nor did she have any desire to; after years of childish dreams, she had found her night, even if he wore clerical robes instead of shining armor and carried a staff and rosary rather than a sword and shield.

She leaned toward him, intent on another kiss, but a gleeful cry rose and they both turned to look as the children rushed past them, shouts of "He's here!" and "It's the peddler!" bursting from the crowd as it flooded down toward the southern road, where a rickety cart pulled by a shaggy brown pony drew steadily nearer to the festival grounds.

At that distance, it was impossible to make out the short figure who drove the cart, but there was no need; everyone in Sairaag knew the peddler, Guliver Swift. He came every year to the Festival of the Summer Stars to sell wares gathered from the farthest reaches of the known world and, if one believed his tales, the world beyond. Every child in the city anticipated his arrival almost as much as the festival itself, not just for the items he sold, but also for the tales of his travels, which he would share with as much flourish as to make a court bard envy his talent for performance. Even some of the adults would sit by and listen to his tales over a mug of ale and a pipeful of dried baccy leaf. And after, those with money to spend would buy from his cart. Guliver always said it was the profit of those sales that brought him back to Sairaag every year, but a telltale twinkle in his eye as he shared the stories of his travels told otherwise.

Sylphiel and Radin made their way to the spot where Guliver always set up his wagon, a small grassy plot beneath a tree just past the bridge and High Priest Fayne joined them a few moments later. With pots and pans banging and clattering, Guliver reined Bella to a halt, the pony nickering uncomfortably at the crowd of noisy children around her. Patting the animal on the neck as he climbed down, the peddler affected not to notice the attention he had drawn, seemingly engrossed in the activity of leveling the cart. The children grew more impatient and tried to draw into a tighter circle around him, one even jumping up on the rear of the wagon and throwing it off balance. Grumbling, Guliver shooed the overeager boy off, racing back to calm Bella as more children drew around her. From somewhere in the crowd, a cry of "stories!"rose and in seconds, it was echoed by all the children. When the peddler continued to ignore, still focused on securing the hitch and trying to soothe his nervous pony all at once, the din grew louder. Finally, he turned, running a boney hand through his course, brown hair, and the crowd began to quiet.

"Stories?" he said when he could be heard without raising his voice, stroking the whiskers on his chin. "I can no be telling any right now. I must be getting my cart ready. Besides, if I did tell all my stories now, what would I be telling ye at the festival?" A collective moan of disappointment rose and, looking at all the brokenhearted faces in the crowd, a hopeless look found its way to his grey eyes. "Alright, maybe one," he conceded. "But tonight, at the Heron's Call. Now, off with ye all. I do be having work to do."

A joyful exclamation burst from every child at once and within moments, the crowd had dispersed, every child running off to play, leaving Guliver alone with Sylphiel and the two priests. Guliver took a moment to stroke Bella's mane and whisper a few soothing words before turning his attention to the others.

"It do be good seeing you again, Eldar," the peddler said, touching his right fist to his left shoulder in what he claimed was the salutation of his homeland, though he had never said what land he claimed as home.

Eldar tried to hide a grimace as he smelled the peddler's breath. "And to you," he replied. "I see that you still chew bitterroot gum."

Guliver threw back his head with a great guffaw, then leaned over and spat the wad of sap out into the stream. "Aye, but bad breath do be a small price to pay for the health it gives. How goes the times?"

"All is well here," Eldar replied. "The Great Tree casts its shadow on all the city and we prosper. This year's festival promises to be something of special magnificence."

Guliver nodded soberly, then turned back to the hitch of his cart, finally fitting the latch and leveling it out. "That do be good. But I wish I could be saying the same for the rest of the world."

"I'm interested in hearing about that," the High Priest said.

Guliver turned to face him again, placing his hands on his hips and leaning backward - there was a quiet popping sound - and Sylphiel was aware that the peddler eyed her sideways. Eldar nodded, so slightly that she was not sure she hadn't simply imagined it. Radin put an arm over her shoulder and Guliver gave the both of them a knowing smile, then nodded again. Somehow, Sylphiel knew that something had just passed between the peddler and the two priests, though she couldn't say what.

"The king of Sailune has passed from this world, peace favor his soul and grant him mercy at his rebirth." Guliver's gruff voice had a touch of tenderness to it as he spoke, as though that news was a personal loss to him.

"So I had heard," Eldar answered. "I also heard rumors that suggested a problem with the succession; something of a usurper trying to seize power."

Guliver shook his head and sighed. "Exaggerated, I do be certain. Phileonel do be the rightful king of Sailune now and he claimed it without much trouble. Other claimants to the thrown do be dead, caught in their attempts to assassinate the rightful heir and the only other who may have any claim to it do have no interest in ruling. There was some fuss with an upstart noble - Zorron I do believe his name was - but he did no be looking to take the throne, I think. He pushed for legal reform and tried to pass laws the old king would never have agreed, even stirred up the peasants a little to support him, but King Philionel did no approve. The noble did no press the matter any further and even agreed to serve the king as a diplomat on a mission to Ralteague. The White Capital do still be whole."

It was not until Radin and his uncle relaxed that Sylphiel realized that they had been tense. She looked anxiously up into Radin's face and he gave her a reassuring smile. Whatever it all meant, there was no reason to worry, but still, she wished she knew what was happening. The peddler went on, though, his voice still laden with importance.

"There do be other events of note," he said. "The gold dragons do be on the move."

Eldar blinked in surprise. "I've heard nothing of that."

"Such rumors spread slowly, as few do be willing to believe them. But there have been at least three sightings in the last two months of gold dragons flying northward, all of them in small towns at best, with few witnesses. It do be a stretch to believe such rumors are true and I may not be believing them myself."

"But?" the High Priest prompted.

"I do be seeing one for myself," he answered. "It did be near the Wailing Mountains and it did be heading north, just as the rumors say. They may be gathering, I think, but for what I do no be sure of."

For a long moment, the Eldar was quiet, his face grave. Radin also looked uncomfortable, eyeing his uncle with worry, no soft smile to reassure her this time. Sylphiel did not know what to think. The gold dragons did not like to be seen by humans and they didn't move much at all, much less openly. It was certainly odd, but they were all moving northward and none of the sightings were anywhere near them - they would have at least heard some sort of rumor otherwise - nor were gold dragons hostile toward humans, in fact, they most often did not care, so what could there be to worry about? And even if they were in such a rush that they would be careless enough to be seen, they were still not going near any large cities, which had at least kept rumor from spreading too far. Even the gold dragons could not know everything and with centuries to live, how could they possibly keep track of every small village or town that sprung up in the years between their long slumbers. And humans knew so little of the gold dragons, nothing at all, really, so how could they be sure that a gathering meant anything at all. The last time gold dragons had gathered had been during the Koma War, but every race of the world had gathered at that time; there was no use assuming anything.

Radin murmured something under his breath - Sylphiel thought it might have been "Wait, watch and prepare," but she couldn't have been sure. Before she could ask what he meant, Guliver was pushing his pony's reins into her hands.

"My dear, take Bella to the stables," he told her, "and see to it that she do be taken care of."

As if suddenly remembering she was there, Eldar nodded to her. She stood a moment, confused, looking at Guliver, then the High Priest and then Radin.

"Go," Radin said gently. "I'll meet up with you again later."

Sylphiel drew the pony's reins, leading her away from the group. She looked back over her shoulder as she departed, but the three of them had gathered together and were speaking quietly among themselves, too quiet for her to hear. By the expression on Guliver's face - the only one she could see - the conversation was grim indeed.

But what were they talking about? And why could they not speak of it in front of her? Men enjoyed their gossip as much as their ale and beer, but it was only gossip. Wasn't it? There was no reason for them to need to speak privately, yet she knew that Radin had not _asked_ her to leave. Perhaps some men liked to talk amongst themselves without women to overhear, without women to remind them to keep a level head - something they often needed - but this was something more. She had been dismissed and had she tried to stay, she was certain High Priest Fayne would have ordered her to leave.

Her thoughts only grew darker as she left the festival grounds, entering into the city. Most of the merchants were preparing for the festival, leaving many of the shops and stalls vacant, but the city streets were far from empty. Housewives that weren't caught up in chores in the home were gathered in small crowds, discussing plans for the upcoming celebration, some carrying infants, or with toddlers clinging to the skirts of their blouses. Some children were running about in the streets, playing games of catch-me, or knights and trolls. There were even a few men putting up decorations all around the city. Much of the city was glowing with the colors of celebration and by the end of the day, so would the rest of it. Some of the people waved to her as she passed, and she waved back, smiling at them, but that smile would have seemed shadowed, had any of them been close enough to see her face clearly.

She trusted Radin, and his uncle just as much and she had known Guliver since she was only a child. She could never doubt that they had anything but the best of intentions for the city and its people, nor could she doubt that Radin would keep anything from her if it were important. But if the news Guliver brought was not of great importance, Radin would not have sent her away. Back and forth she carried the conflict. She trusted her love, as he did her, but he couldn't share this knowledge with her; he trusted her, but not enough to tell her what the three of them discussed. No! She did not doubt him, could never doubt him! She loved him!

"Bella!"

Sylphiel nearly jumped as two small children rushed to her, quickly stepping between them and the pony, putting her hand on the animal's neck soothingly. Jaime, a small, blonde boy of seven with piercing blue eyes full of youthful energy, made an exaggerated bow to her, while Jenny, his twin sister, and a mirror image if not for her long hair, curtsied.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Sylphiel," they chimed as one.

"Is that Sir Guliver's pony?" Jenny asked, and Jamie added "Is he here now?"

Sylphiel smiled at them, in spite of the dark thoughts that had weighed on her only a moment before. She could never bring herself to feel very upset about anything when she was with the twins. When they had been born seven years ago, on the very day of the festival that the city would soon be attending, her adopted father had declared a special blessing upon them and it seemed to have come true. It was almost as if they carried some spell when they were together, some magical effect that made everything about the world seem peaceful and beautiful. They were never seen one without the other and wherever they went, the sound of laughter filled up the air with joy.

"It is, and he is," Sylphiel answered. "But he's busy right now, speaking with High Priest Fayne. I wouldn't bother him right now. Guliver has promised to tell a story tonight at the Heron's Call. If you're good, I bet your mother will let you listen."

"Really?" Both said, eyes wide and glittering.

Sylphiel nodded. "Now, run along and play. I have to take Bella to the stables."

Both nodded enthusiastically, taking each other by the hand and ran off together laughing. Sylphiel watched them weave their way down the street until they turned toward the festival grounds and passed out of her sight. Still smiling, she turned and continued to lead the pony toward the stables.

It truly was like some form of magic with those two. She had spoken with them only a moment, but after that small time, her thoughts had lightened. She still wondered what it was that Radin and the other two spoke of, but it seemed only a little thing. She _did_ trust Radin, loved him, and that was all that mattered. So long as she knew that was true, everything would be well.

The sign over the inn's door creaked as it swung in the soft breeze. The inn of Heron's Call was the oldest in Sairaag, built more then two hundred years ago, before even The Faith had built their temple. It had grown considerably larger in the past two centuries, enlarged out of necessity to accommodate the increasing number of travelers who came in pilgrimage to the temple and the Great Tree. Though there were two other inns in the city, and both prided themselves on their services, the Heron's Call still maintained its reputation as the best inn in all of Sairaag - in all of Lyzelle, some people claimed. Whether true or not, the inn was always busy, even more so at this time of year. It was far too early in the day to be getting drunk, but she could hear the sounds of tavern business coming from the open window. Already, people were getting their rooms and though she doubted that the inn was full yet, she knew every room on all three floors would be full up before the next four days passed - and probably several lofts in the stables as well.

Passing around back, she was greeted by Master Otik. The pudgy, topknotted innkeeper waved at her from the kitchen window with his malformed right hand, it's last three fingers fused together by a web of skin, and called to her.

"Wonderful day, isn't it?" he said.

Sylphiel nodded. "I'm stabling Bella," she told him. "Guliver will be staying here, as usual."

Otik nodded. "When you see him, tell him I receiver his letter. His usual room is already reserved for him."

A cry from the commons room drew his attention, calling for several more orders of food and ale. The innkeeper yanked at his topknot in frustration with his good hand and apologized briefly to Sylphiel before disappearing into cellar.

As she drew near the stable, the piping music of a shawm drifted through the air. With a smile, she pushed open the stable door and led the pony in. Gilbert, tall, with a narrow face framed by red hair, peeked his head up over the one of the stalls where he was tending to some traveler's dun. He waved to her before he continued brushing the animal's coat.

"Good day, Gilbert," she said, favoring him with a smile. "I see that Gawyn has chosen to hide himself here today."

At the sound of her voice, Gawyn leaned his head out of one of the lofts, straws of hay tangled in his strangely white hair. Seeing her, he quickly ran a hand through it to clean it, stuffing his broad-brimmed hat over the top of his head and leapt down from the loft, gripping his panpipes in one hand and holding his hat on his head with the other. He straightened his red cape, smoothed his red and yellow tunic, brushing off more strands of hay - he must have dived into one of the hay bails to hide when he heard the door opening - adjusted the golden plume in his hat and met Sylphiel with a broad grin.

"Long days and pleasant nights, sweet maiden kissed by dawn's first light," he finished the last with a flourish of his cape and a bow. As he slipped the hat back on, he noticed a straw in his hair and plucked it out.

Sylphiel put a hand over her mouth to cover her smile and hold in her laugh. Sweet maiden kissed by dawn's first light? There was certainly nothing over-dramatic about _that_. Though his back was turned, Sylphiel could see from his posture that Gilbert was chuckling to himself. Gawyn must have understood her expression, for a flush of scarlet deeper then the clothes he wore came to his cheeks. He made a sound of clearing his throat as he readjusted his cape.

"Well, that wasn't my best line ever." Even flustered as he was, his voice had a naturally rhythmic, even musical quality to it. He suddenly turned, facing Gilbert. "Well, what are you waiting for? Stable the Lady's pony."

Gilbert deliberately stroked the stallion a few more times, then carefully hung the brush in its place before coming to take Bella's reins. He was shaking his head, but there was a small, yet playful grin on the young man's face as he lead the pony into the empty stall next to her. Sylphiel returned the expression before turning to Gawyn, her face changing to mock severity.

"You've been giving Radin lessons in how to talk to girls again, haven't you, Gawyn?" she said.

Gawyn shrugged, the gold trimming sparkling a bit even in the dim light of the stable. There must have been glitter on that cape; Sylphiel could not imagine how even silk garments could sparkle so. "He asks it of me and how can I resist a request from such a noble man of The Faith?"

"You didn't charge him for the lessons this time, did you?" she asked, waiving an admonishing finger at him. "If you did, you'd be right to hide in a hayloft."

Gawyn started, then looked at her as if hurt, or offended. "Why, my lady, I wouldn't dream of it." At the back of the stable, Gilbert let slip a short croak of a laugh as he hung up the pony's harness and bridle. If Gawyn noticed it, he pretended not to. "Besides, he paid me enough for a whole month of lessons last time."

Sylphiel laughed, shaking her head. A whole month? Radin clearly had no sense of money, or perhaps the thought of her addled his mind - she was more than aware she had that effect on some men. She looked back up at the poet, opened her mouth to speak, then could only laugh again.

"Do you mock his love for you?" Gawyn said, plucking a few more strands of straw from his hair and combing it back with his hand.

Sylphiel shook her head. "I would never," she told him. "It's just that he has no talent for poetry."

"Oh, I _know_," Gawyn burst. "With a tongue like that, he's lucky he doesn't stumble just to get through simple conversation. It's almost embarrassing. At the end of every lesson, I warn him that if he ever tells anyone he's taking lessons from me, he won't get another and it's not because I don't want people to know I give lessons."

At that, Sylphiel leaned forward, arms over her stomach, and laughed harder than before. It was funny because it was true; she loved Radin, but, by all the Kami, it was true. Gawyn laughed with her, while Gilbert's braying bellylaugh drowned both out. After a few minutes, Sylphiel straightened up, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, her shoulders still trembling now and again from clucks of amusement.

"So, why are you hiding in a stable then?" she asked him.

Gawyn's face colored again, deeper than before if anyone could have believed it possible. "No reason," he said. "I simply enjoy my privacy."

Gilbert croaked again. Looking at Sylphiel, he held up three fingers, signifying the number of young girls that were fighting over the poet this time. Sylphiel tried to mask her amusement, but Gawyn must have noticed the tightness in her mouth and the impish gleam in her eye. As the poet turned to the stablehand, Gilbert made as though he were scratching his head, returning Gawyn's no-doubt venomous glare with a look of such wide-eyed innocence it could have declared him guilty of murder.

Sylphiel was about to laugh again, but Bella suddenly stomped a hoof. The pony's ears drew back in agitation and it bared it's teeth. In the other stalls, the other horses began nickering and snorting angrily. Sylphiel started to move toward Bella, thinking to soothe the animal, but it suddenly reared up on its hind legs, screaming impossibly loud. In the moment of panic, everything slowed to a crawl. Without warning, Gilbert tackled Sylphiel as Bella came back down, and in the hour it seemed to take her and the stableman to hit the floor, she watched the pony kick at the stall door with such force that it burst off one of its hinges, splinters of wood bursting from the wall, to swing awkwardly.

The soft trill of pipe music filled the air as Gawyn put his shawm to his lips and with each lilting note, the horses quieted a bit more, until a relative calm settled over the stable. Bella still tapped in the floor in agitation, but among the rest of the animals there was quiet, if a nervous quiet. Gilbert helped Sylphiel to her feet, dusting off her garments, and gave her a worried stare.

"Thank you, Gilbert," she said. "I'm alright. What happened?"

The stablehand shook his head in bewilderment, his eyes wide with shock and confusion. Quickly, he turned back to the stall and tried to comfort the pony.

"Gilbert has no idea what that was," Gawyn said, lowering his pipes. "That's the second time that's happened since I've been here today. And the fifth time in the last three days, if I understand our quiet friend here correctly." From the stall, Gilbert nodded emphatically. "The animals have been starting without any apparent provocation. Something is putting them on edge."

Sylphiel frowned at Bella. "This isn't right," she said carefully. "Perhaps I should tell High Priest Fayne."

Gawyn's shrug was non-committal. "If you think it necessary."

Sylphiel nodded, then turned, suddenly eager to be gone from the place. An itch was building between her shoulders, like a cold needle boring into her skin. She pushed open the door and stepped out into the sun.

"I wasn't here," Gawyn told her.

Sylphiel made a gesture of buttoning her lips before she closed the door. Heaving a heavy sigh, she looked up at the sky, where the sun was only just passing its midday mark. The heat of the day was beginning to reach it's height, but for her own part, Sylphiel was almost amazed that she couldn't see her breath in front of her. The breeze of earlier had died down, but a discomforting chill coursed through her body and she found herself rubbing her shoulders for warmth. Straightening up, she tried to chide herself for childish fancies. Drawing a deep calming breath, she started back toward the main street, when a flash of movement in the corner of her eye, the flutter of a red cloak, caught her attention. Whirling about in surprise, she was about to call out, but whatever she had seen was gone. She took a few steps back and swallowed the nervous lump in her throat which only went as far the knot in her stomach.

_You're seeing things,_ she told herself, but that itch made her thoughts seem hollow.


	6. You have Been Called

Chapter 6

"You Have Been Called."

The festival grounds were as much alive as before, and even in the dry heat of the afternoon, there were more people on the fields than there had been earlier, but even among the scattered crowds, Sylphiel felt more alone than she had ever known. She knew her concern must have shown on her face, but the townsfolk seemed too caught up in the anticipation of the upcoming festival to notice it, greeting her cheerfully as they passed. She forced a smile and answered the greetings she barely heard mechanically, but after the moment, the hollowness returned. A shadow of fear, like a thorny weed, had taken root deeply inside her and choked all other feeling away.

This wasn't the first time she had seen something like this, though she only now realized it. Over the past several weeks, a sense of foreboding had been pricking at the back of her mind and she had kept thinking she had seen something, but it was never more than a vague sense, like the fading memory of a nightmare after just awakening, troubling for a moment, but swiftly gone and soon forgotten. But this time . . .

What had at first only been a fluttering cloak that disappeared into the wind grew in detail as memories came welling up unbidden, looming over her other thoughts like a haunting tower of fear. A man in a red cloak, the hood drawn up to hide a face divided clearly through its middle, one half a gorgeous image of perfection beyond humanity that defied even Gawyn's best descriptions, the other gaunt and scarred, riddled with pits and crevices as though rotworms had bored into its necrotic flesh. And those eyes - even in the shadow of the cowl they gleamed, orange like polished amber. The eyes were the worst. Even as she drove the rest of the image into the void, those eyes continued to stare down at her from the blackness, somehow empty of all emotion, yet full of self-loathing and undying hatred all at once. She had seen that before, but she dare not admit where, even in her own thoughts.

She had to find Fayne; the high priest would know what to do, would be able to help. He would be somewhere at the festival grounds, likely still talking to Guliver. She had to find him and tell him what she had seen, to warn him.

"That face do no be suiting ye, lass. These be happy times come, yes?"

Until he had spoken, Sylphiel hadn't even realized she was standing beside the peddler's cart, or that Guliver looking her over with a merry twinkle in his eye. A few people were gathered around the wagon to check on the goods, but there was no sign of either Fayne or Radin. She looked around, but she did not see them anywhere near. The grin on Guliver's face faltered a bit and he put his arm over her shoulder, leading her aside to speak quietly.

"What ails ye?" he asked.

Sylphiel took another quick glance around, but with the same results. "Where did High Priest Fayne go?" she asked.

"A pigeon arrived with an important message, no but a few minutes ago. Do something be the matter?"

An important message? The peddler's words seemed earnest, yet she doubted that any urgent letters had arrived in months, or that any such messages would be for the priests if they came at all.

"Where did he go?" she asked.

Guliver hesitated. "I should be thinking he went to answer the letter. After, he probably will be going to the temple. Radin told me to say that he would be meeting ye by the tree after an hour or so, so I should think they do be busy now."

Sylphiel couldn't imagine what business at the temple required the high priest's attention more than his duties to oversee the preparations for the festival, not with so many younger priests to see to matters, but if he was on his way to the temple, she might be able to catch him on the way if she hurried. As she turned to leave, Guliver pulled her back and held her tightly, drawing her a little further from the small crowd.

"If it be important, he may no be able to see you," the peddler said softly. "What do be bothering ye?"

Sylphiel met his eyes. "What did you three talk about just now?"

Whether it was the question itself, or the intensity in her stare, Sylphiel wasn't sure, but Guliver started for just a moment, loosening his grip. It was only a brief moment, but long enough for her to slip out of his arm. Taking a step back, she made a quick bow to him.

"I'm sorry, I have work to do."

The peddler opened his mouth to speak, his concern visible on his face - she felt a pang of guilt at that - but she gave him no time to say anything. Giving him a nod barely formal enough for politeness as she passed, she hurried toward the temple as fast as she though she could without drawing any more attention than she already had, leaving Guliver with nothing to do but stare at her retreating back. She hoped that no one had taken notice enough to give it any thought. Rumors were likely to speak poorly of the peddler if they did and she did not want to hurt his reputation, but her need to find Fayne was too important to delay any longer.

As soon as she was past from the festival grounds and away from any curious onlookers, her pace quickened from a brisk walk to a near dead run, only slowing as she neared the temple, the buzz of the crowds of pilgrims and petitioners beginning to rise from the inner wall. She stopped at the fork in the path just beyond the temple gate to catch her breath and compose herself. The chance that she was letting her imagination run away with her still hung in the back of her mind, though only a desperate grip on that possibility kept it from fading into nothingness, and to start a panic over it might be worse than keeping it to herself.

A gentle breeze had picked up, carrying away some of the heat of the afternoon and with it came the scent of the flowers in the gardens around the Great Tree. She breathed in deeply, letting the sweet fragrance fill her and listened to the trill of the songbirds perched on the top of the arched gateway that marked the entrance to the temple grounds. When that failed to calm her, she closed her eyes and let her breath come in and out deep and steady, just as she had been instructed in her early lessons. Calling up the image of a lotus blossom opening, she released all of her negative emotions as the petals slowly unfolded, letting them float away with the stream. She was one with the blossom, anchored firmly in place with the knowledge that come what may, the river would carry it away and life would continue. All concerns of life were but a passing thing, shadows that rose quickly and departed with equal swiftness, what came before was gone and what was yet to come would be weathered in its own time, but now, there was peace, just the flower and the river.

It was a simple meditation, the first that every initiate of The Faith was required to master before any of the greater duties or secrets could be given, but it served its purpose. She controlled her fear now, let it give her direction and purpose and she knew exactly what to do and how she was to go about it. With the calmness, her memories cleared and the horrible image which stalked through her thoughts fell into perspective. What had seemed a creature larger than life and had continued to grow in her panic-stricken mind was no larger than a man, barely taller than she, if that. The details grew more gruesome in some ways - what had seemed a face divided in half was, in truth, two faces, joined at the cheeks with half of each nearly hidden beneath the sides of the cowl - but the clarity of the image had given flesh to what had before been only a nightmare. And flesh it indeed had, a definite physical shape. This made it no less frightening, but form gave something that could be observed and understood, which could be used to prepare. It also meant vulnerability, for Mazoku accepted certain weaknesses in exchange for the ability to physically affect the world.

Even thinking the word no longer filled her with the overwhelming terror it had at first. She would not say the word aloud where there might be others to hear - and there was no need to tempt any nearby kami of luck besides - but being able to accept the truth for what it was helped strengthen her resolve. There was a Mazoku hiding out in the city and had been for at least tree weeks, perhaps more. There were many possibilities, but if it had caught her alone as many times as she thought it had and made no move to attack her, then it was not in a blood-frenzy. The eyes said that it desired to kill her, but that meant little, for there was never a demon that did not wish to spill the blood of humans. There was something else in those eyes as well, some sense of purpose she couldn't quite give words too, one strong enough to overpower its lust for slaughter and chaos, which also implied a good chance that its attack would not come too soon. That meant it was time to act rationally, not run about like a chicken with is head cut off.

First, to find Fayne.

She opened her eyes and saw an acolyte coming down the path. Geofram by name, she recognized him at a distance from his deep tan complexion and the slightly muscular build unusual for boy who had seen barely sixteen winters, both gifts from his years as a deckhand on a government vessel of the Allied Confederacy of Coastal States. He had only lived in the city for the past two years and he spoke little to others, even less about himself and a good deal of suspicion surrounded him and his peculiar habits, but he was an honest boy and a hard worker, and highly spiritual on top of that.

Stepping beneath the gate - it was bad luck to stop a priest of any level just after he passed the gate - she waved to him. He neither changed his pace, nor made any gesture in return, but she knew he had seen her, and he stopped exactly at arm's length, bending at the waist in a bow that was no more or less formal than custom required. After he straightened his back, spreading his shoulders as though he were standing at attention, he stared at her expectantly.

"Where are you going?" she asked him.

"I've finished my duties," he stated, his nasal accent just as strong as it had been when he first arrived.

"That isn't what I asked you," she said. "Though I am glad to hear it," she added quickly; if he ever had any reason to think others were displeased with him, it led to several minutes of dry apologies and promises to do better.

"I'm going to my home to gather my belongings."

"Then you're leaving again?"

Geofram nodded once, no part of him moving below the neck. Sylphiel sighed. It was one of his habits, to leave the city a few days before any of the larger festivals and not come back until the week after. It would be senseless to try talking him into staying, or to ask where he went and why. If asked, he would simply refuse to answer, or remind whoever asked that he worked twice as hard the rest of the year to make up for the labors that he missed and politely excuse himself. She had already given up on trying to persuade him to stay, and she had other things to do at the moment anyway.

"Have you seen High Priest Fayne?" she asked.

The boy nodded. "Lord Fayne went into the inner sanctum with three of the priests, not more than five minutes ago."

Lord Fayne. Another of Geofram's odd quirks. He referred to anyone with any rank as Lord or Lady unless they specified a different title. Anyone else at least got an honorific of sir or ma'am, regardless of who they were. Even the children he called young master or young lady.

Then the meaning of his words struck her.

"The _inner_ sanctum?"

Again, he nodded.

"What is he doing in the inner sanctum?"

Geofram shook his head. "After going in, he closed the doors."

Sylphiel's brow furrowed in thought. Why would he go into the inner sanctum? Only the most sacred and esoteric rituals were performed in the inner sanctum and only priests and priestesses could enter it without permission from the high priest. It was the most holy of holy places, a room for the most sanctified rites of prayer and meditation. The Festival of the Summer Stars was a very special holiday for The Faith, but it did not demand any rituals of that much spirituality; in fact, it required very little ritual at all, aside from the usual. The summer solstice was the time when light was at its strongest, when darkness was all but conquered and the need for rites of purification that strong simply did not exist. Had it been the Festival of Winter's Heart, she wouldn't have raised an eyebrow at this sort of news, but . . .

"If you have no further need of me."

Sylphiel blinked. She had completely forgotten about Geofram, who stood patiently, just as straight-backed as before. He would stand there all day waiting for her permission to leave if she did not give it, even though she held no rank above him. She nodded to him. With another bow, and a quick reply of "ma'am," he went on his way. Still a little stunned from the news, she didn't even bother to remind him that she was 'just Sylphiel.'

Why the inner sanctum? Was it something to do with what Guliver had said? What _had_ the peddler had to say to them? Or perhaps someone else had seen the demon and reported it. After all, if it had been in the city for as long as she thought it had, then it was unlikely that she was the only one who had seen it. Then again, she could simply be over thinking things. Certain rites of atonement were also performed in the inner sanctum and beyond that, even she did not know all of the rituals performed there - she was only a temple maiden, after all, barely more than an initiate thanks to her gallivanting off after Gourry.

In any case, if Fayne had gone into the inner sanctum, likely taking Radin with him, then there was no way to reach him for now. And Radin _had _told Guliver that he would meet her after an hour. Her news could wait for an hour and she needed more time to straighten things out. Even the smallest detail might be important and though the high priest would draw them out with his questions, it would be much more helpful if she had prepared herself beforehand. She would need a quiet place where she could concentrate, to perform Wind Through The Oak's Branches, to clear her mind of distractions and focus on the minute. She could not do that on the road to the temple, but there was her spot by the Great Tree. People seldom bothered her there and Radin would find her quickly if she was already waiting for him.

She went back to the fork, turned the other way and started toward Flagoon. Fear still nestled inside her, but the panic had left and she would not run. She had probably already raised more than a few questions with her odd behavior earlier, nothing could be done to change what had already happened, but there was no sense in making more of a scene now, best save what could be saved. She deliberately walked at a moderate pace, enjoying the peace of the afternoon, the songs of the birds and the shade of the trees, even though she had to force herself to enjoy it just a little. She would not give in to fear. She had dealt with monsters before, even once fought against the dreaded hell-lord alongside Lina and Gourry. Her knees trembled a bit, but she steadied herself quickly. She would not give in to fear. This creature would be no different than what she had dealt with before. No, it would be nothing like what she had dealt with before, it could not possibly be as strong as that. She would not give in to fear, she would control it.

Sylphiel almost laughed at herself. She was trying so hard to convince herself that she was not afraid that her own thoughts were going in circles. But she was afraid, even after all that she had faced before. Only a fool held no fear of demons, regardless of how many they had fought before and Sylphiel was no fool. Yes, she feared the creature, but she would not surrender to it. This time, the thought brought a smile to her lips, which helped keep her calm.

Just as she came in sight of the gardens around the Great Tree, she heard a voice calling to her. Turning, she saw a stocky man, a Kalmaartan by his build, though it was difficult to tell from a distance, running up the path behind her, nearly stumbling over his starscaped blue robes, sweat dampening the sides of his face as it rolled off of his shaved, tattooed head. As he came closer, she recognized him, one of the apprentices at the sorcerer's guild, he was known to play dice and cards at the local taverns, or had been until the particulars of his discipline in magic were learned - after that, nobody would dare gamble with him. Heran Borenhaeld was the name that came to her mind, though she had only met him a couple of times before and hardly knew him at all.

Heran didn't slow until he reached her, coming to such a sudden halt that Sylphiel almost jumped back in fear that he might overrun her and keep on going. Hunched over, hands on his knees, he tried to speak, but couldn't get even the first syllable of her name out through his heavy panting. He must have been running all the way from the guild hall, or wherever he had last came from, if he was this worn out, which worried her a bit. Seeing the perspiration glistening on his domed head, she reluctantly handed her a handkerchief, which he took eagerly, and dried his face. Handing it back to her with half-formed words of gratitude, he stood up and drew a deep breath, holding it for a moment and then let it out.

He touched two fingers of each hand to the black lines that swirled about his shaven head, wet his lips with his tongue and, still panting a bit, said, "I thought you'd be at the fair grounds, but the people there said you had rushed off to find the head priest. Guliver thought that I might be . . . that is, he said that I . . ."

The magician put the palm of his hands together, his eyes rolling up skyward, and a nervous grin that showed more teeth than Sylphiel cared to see spread across his face. It seemed that whatever Guliver had said, it wasn't the most pleasant thing he had ever heard.

The temple maiden sighed; so much for not starting rumors. Though she suspected it was undeserved, Heran had a reputation for chasing skirts to match his reputation for cheating at cards and no doubt his appearance after her hurried departure didn't bode well with the townsfolk. Well, at least it wasn't as bad as it could have been. The magician would be seen talking to a tavern girl somewhere and everyone would forget all about this.

Finally, Heran cleared his throat, loudly, and then spoke in a calm, clear voice. "I beg a favor of you, young lady."

Sylphiel took a glance over her shoulder, back toward the tree, then looked at the magician. Heran had a pleading, almost desperate look in his eyes. No, there was no almost about it; he looked more like a cornered animal than a human with that expression. She was not sure which worried her more, the look on his face or the fact that he needed a favor.

"Please, come with me for a moment."

Sylphiel chewed her bottom lip. She needed to get to the tree to do her meditations, she needed to be there when Radin came looking for her. If she went with Heran now, she might miss him entirely.

And she wasn't really sure that Heran's notoriety with women was actually all that undeserved.

"Please," he begged, bowing deeply and putting his hands together pleadingly - a far overdone gesture, one that she might have taken for an insult had the magician understood their culture any better. The next came out in a torrent, "Master Javier will be utterly rancorous if I can't get this dilemma resolved, and I've only just barely managed to convince him to allow me to perform at the festival this year. If anything should rouse his ire now, he may reconsider his decision, even after all my arduous preparations and the money I've spent; it will concern him not at all if I spend the whole festival cleaning up his laboratory, just as I did the year prior."

"Slow down," Sylphiel burst out in exasperation, then gasped. "Forgive me, that was rude."

She bowed in apology, but Heran shook his head.

"No, no," he replied. "It's my fault for babbling on so. But, you see, I'm in a terrible bind."

"How can I help?"

Heran sighed with obvious relief. "It's the lab animals," he explained. "My master's lab animals have all gone berserk and I can't do a thing to calm them."

Sylphiel blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Heran drummed his fingers together nervously. "Well," he muttered, "they say that you have a way with young children and animals. Like magic, or so I've heard. I thought that maybe . . ."

Sylphiel eyed him, one eyebrow cocked up, her mouth hanging slightly open. When she didn't say anything, the magician continued.

". . . that maybe you could help me calm them down? I'm sorry. I normally wouldn't ask this, but I don't know what else to do. Master Javier gave me only one duty to attend to while he was out today and that was to see to his animals, but nothing I try will calm them." He paused again, not for breath, but to wait for her to speak, but she only continued to stare at him. "Oh, they're small specimens, no need to worry; domestic cats and lapdogs mostly, a few hares, some frogs. There is an ape, but he hasn't acted up at all since Master . . . and I wouldn't ask you to try that even if he was. There's no great danger on your part."

There was an uncomfortable pause and Heran's eyes darted about nervously, as if searching for something to flee from. Finally, the man sighed.

"I can see that I've overstepped the bounds of decency," he said. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"No," Sylphiel replied. "It's just that I . . ." Heran's gaze was so pleading that the young woman knew that it would do no good to try talking her way out of it. He needed help and it was her duty to help those in need, even if it was a strange request. "I was going to the Great Tree to meditate, but I suppose I can help you."

Another toothy grin spread across the magician's face, his eyes sparkling with pleasure. "Oh, thank you, my lady. I promise, I won't take any more of your time than I must. Please, come this way."

He beckoned for her to follow, then followed the path back the way he had come at a brisk walk, not bothering to wait to see if she was coming with him. Sylphiel sighed as she followed after, wondering what had ever possessed the man to come to her and how, by all the kami, someone so long-winded and clumsy could possibly have the reputation that he did. It seemed that today would be a long day.

The building before them was called the Sairaag Guild of Sorcery, but the building itself was actually outside the city by almost a kilometer. After the Rezo II had used the magical experiments in the guild hall to destroy more than half the city, the people of the city had refused to let the sorcerers rebuild inside the city limits. The building itself now rested on a cliff that overlooked the small inland bay where trade ships from Atlas would come every few of months to do their business with Sairaag until the winter frost closed it off. It had not yet been long enough since the guildhall had been built for a trail to have been fully worn into the earth from the main road to the building itself and would likely be years yet before one would be; the guild had not been exactly popular with the townspeople even before the 'incident.'

Save for the extra wing added on the east side, the building was much the same as the last one, as far as Sylphiel could remember it. Spacious was the only pleasant word that came to mind, but the excess made even that seem uncomfortable. The tremendous stone gateway that served as the building's front door might have seemed inviting for a giant, but it made her feel small and insignificant. A huge lump of stone and steel full of rigid lines, squared angles and sharpened edges, with steam and smoke spewing from pipes that protruded out at odd places and what looked to be gears and sprockets that poked out seemingly at random thundering away, the structure itself seemed designed more as some madman's workshop than a place of study. In truth, even Sylphiel's own experience with the guild did not give her any greater clue as to which was closer to describing the building's purpose.

The odd smell of the place as the two approached the front gate - the bitter, ashen scent of burning coal mixed with the slightly sour odor of strange chemicals- brought back a host of memories that Sylphiel would much rather have forgotten. The smell itself was not so horrible if one could get used to it, but it always dragged out secrets that she never should have tried to learn from the shadowy corners of her memory, secrets that no human should try to learn. The hollow, metallic echoing of Heran's fist rapping on the gate was as a foretelling of doom that sent a biting chill crawling up her back and only careful discipline gifted by years of training in the temple kept her from going tense, and only now did the young woman realize just how much she had wanted to forget ever coming here.

A small, slitted opening that Sylphiel felt sure had not been there only moments ago appeared in the gateway and a pair of green eyes that might as well have belonged to noone at all for all she could see in the darkness beyond them glared coldly out.

"Name yourself and state your business," came the wary voice from within, one that Sylphiel couldn't quite name as either male or female and somehow struck a chord of familiarity with her.

"Open the door, Cautrim, you addle-brained fool," Heran hissed. "You know who I am."

The eyes narrowed. "You look like Bornehaeld," it replied, sounding possibly amused. "But I don't believe it. Bornehaeld is working in Javier's laboratory and he wouldn't think of shirking his duties. Not if he wants to prove himself like he's always _saying _he does."

Heran went rigid a moment, his fists clenching so tight an iron bar would have snapped under the pressure. With an angry snort, he poked two fingers through the slit, right into those eyes just as they widened in surprise. They disappeared in an instant with a sharp cry and there followed a stream of curses so violent that Sylphiel almost blushed at hearing them.

"Your master will hear of this, Heran Bornehaeld," the eyes screamed, still somewhere out of sight. "You'll be scrubbing floors till your hands are lumpy prunes to shriveled to perform even the most basic of cantrips."

Heran clucked a derisive laugh. "I see the big, bad gatekeeper is going to run and tattle on little apprentice Bornehaeld."

"Damn you," the eyes, now bloodshot, flared angrily at the door. "If I have to personally teach you respect . . ."

"Just open the door, you stick of broccoli," Heran cut in. "I've more important things to do than mince words with the gate guard. Or are you denying me access?"

The eyes withdrew out of sight a moment and there was a worried pause. Sylphiel had never seen this kind of argument when she had studied here before, certainly not over entering the building. Oh, there were rivalries among the mages, that much was always true but they had taken place in not-so-secret competitions to perform the better experiment, or develop the better spell, but this was simply childish. She might have thought that the two would be at the gate all day, except that she knew that Heran held the greater threat; the penalty for an apprentice showing disrespect was a slap on the hand compared to what the gatekeeper would suffer if he denied passage to a fellow sorcerer, even an apprentice, without orders from the head of the guild.

The eyes appeared again, looking straight at Sylphiel, "What about her?"

"She is with . . ." Heran started, but the voice cut him off.

"Miss Sylphiel!" it exclaimed. "You've come back to complete your studies? Hold there, just a moment."

The opening vanished just as suddenly as it had appeared and after a few seconds, there came a loud click and a hollow thundering boom and, after another few seconds of silence, a steady clanking of chains and grinding of gears. With a rusty screech, the gates slid open just wide enough to let the two of them in. A moment after they slipped into the wide, dimly lit hallway, the groaning of machinery sounded again and the doors slammed shut with a dull roar.

From out behind it, a figure dressed in the same starscape robes seemed to materialize out of thin air. Taller than Heran by almost an arms reach, the right half of his head was shaved clean, while the black hair on the other side was grown longer and combed up over the other side and when he extended his hand, she saw that the nails on his long, boney fingers were lacquered black. Now she realized why the voice had seemed so familiar. He had been a student back when she had first come to study at the guild, one so full of bravado that he made some of the other sorcerer's seem shy in comparison, which was a not inconsiderable feat. She stared sternly at his hand until he withdrew it.

"Welcome back," he said. "I always knew you would return to us. The call of power is beyond the ken of mortals to resist."

"I see you are as crude as ever, _young_ Cautrim."

Cautrim twitched at that. Rank was determined partly by age among the guild and to call someone young was to insult his status. Normally, she would not have intentionally been so rude, would have shuddered at the thought, but the man had hounded her while she had studied there before, always trying to impress her with his skill and his intentions had not been noble, nor had his advances been subtle by any stretch of the world. Where any reservations of proper behavior would have been, she had only a hollow pit when it came to this one.

"I have not returned to study," she continued, amazed that her she could keep her tone so even. "I am only here as a favor to Master Bornehaeld. If you'll excuse us."

Oh, Cautrim seethed at that, hearing an apprentice being called 'master,' especially after her earlier insult. It almost seemed that he shrank as the words boiled inside him, stewing his innards into a hot soup. The frustration shook his whole frame and even his eyes trembled wildly. Sylphiel nodded curtly, then turned, taking Heran's hand, and half-pulled him onward for a few moments, before he started walking on his own.

"I don't know what you see in _that_ miserable creature," Cautrim shouted at her back. "But you'll get nothing out of it. That one can't perform." Heran started to turn, but Sylphiel jerked him forward and the two continued. When he saw no reaction, the gatekeeper screamed. "You're a toad, Heran Bornehaeld! You hear me? An ugly, worthless toad and you'll never amount to anything!"

Heran went rigid again, but Sylphiel leaned to whisper in his ear. "Ignore him. It will only be worse if you respond."

Nodding, the magician loosened up, letting Cautrim roil with fury until his shouts finally drew someone out of a nearby office to shush him. The silence that followed was a blessing from the kami and Sylphiel let out a relieved sigh, releasing Heran's arm.

"Why is he even still here?" she asked.

"Because enrollment is low and we need to keep our membership at a certain level or the guild headquarters will cut our funding," Heran replied sullenly. "I suppose I should be grateful, since it keeps me on the list as well, but we'd probably attract more students if we threw him out instead of just stuffing him in that dead-end job."

"What did he mean by, 'prove yourself'?" she asked, hoping to change the subject.

"I suppose you know my reputation?"

Sylphiel nodded; there was not a single person in Sairaag who did not.

Heran harumphed loudly. "They accuse me of cheating, just because I specialize in illusions," he growled. "As if I would stoop to something so disreputable. My magic was meant for more than that. I lost as much money to them as they did to me and they know it." Heran glanced at her from the corner of his eyes, then blushed a bit. "But that's all beside the point. Whatever they think of me outside, they think I'm a no-talent, hedge-wizard in here. To them, the school of illusions is a discipline for hacks and street performers, not something respectable sorcerers should concern themselves with. But a warrior who believes himself defeated, has been just as soundly as if I had pummeled him with bolts of fire, has he not?"

"Why would you need to defeat anyone?" Sylphiel asked.

Bornehaeld shook his head. "I can't imagine myself. They say that a master swordsman never draws his sword, because he's won before the battle ever takes place, but they don't seem to see it that way here. They don't respect the subtle arts, like I do. But I'll show them," a hardness entered into the magician's voice, determination she had not heard from many before and he seemed to stand a little taller. "They'll see what I can do, someday," his tone deflated suddenly, his shoulders slumping. "That is, if I can ever get Master Javier to give me a chance to prove it."

Sylphiel's mouth tightened a bit. It seemed she had picked the wrong thing to say, but at least she knew the young magician had a spark in him, something different from the others of the guild. She could respect that, even if she never wanted anything to do with black magic ever again.

But what to talk about? Heran was more depressed now than he had been worried and the sight brought a pang of guilt. She wanted to say something to make him feel better, but as she looked around the hall for something to strike up a conversation about, nothing came to mind. She settled for putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder, but if he felt it, he made no show.

The hallway was dark, its torches close enough together to give enough light to see, but spread far enough that it was only just barely and every object cast long, eerie shadows. The clamor that had been loud enough outside to make a team of well-trained warhorses skittish was muted by the thick stone walls, a distant, groaning echo barely on the edge of hearing, like the persistent buzzing of an insect. How she had ever slept in these halls, she couldn't begin to understand. The whole building oozed with a sense of unwholesomeness, as if those who had constructed it had known in their hearts that what would go on inside was not meant to see light.

What a mess of bad memories this place was. Why had she ever come here? Why had she ever wanted to know the dark secrets of black magic? How could she have been so smitten over one man that she would act so foolishly?

"You are uncomfortable?" Heran said, more an observation than a question. He stopped suddenly. "I should not have brought you here. It was wrong of me to ask this of you, please go back."

Sylphiel straightened her shoulders, making a visible effort to steel herself, and shook her head firmly. "I said I would help you. I cannot go back on my promise now."

Heran met her eyes with a questioning stare and Sylphiel returned it evenly. She took a deep breath, quietly so that the magician wouldn't hear, remembering the opening lotus blossom. She said she would help, and she would hold to that, regardless of her discomfort. Besides, she realized she admired the man. He had the same look of determination that Radin did, when he chose to show it, and goals to strive for. There were not enough people like him in the world and even if she couldn't help him achieve what he really wanted, she could at least do a small favor for him.

"You are certain?" Heran asked.

Sylphiel nodded. "Besides, the children are looking forward to your performance at the festival this year. I couldn't possibly let you disappoint them, could I?"

Heran smiled, a big, goofy grin that made his rounded cheeks look like a child. Rubbing his forehead, he pulled a key out of one of his sleeves and put it through the door next to them. The key turned slowly and the dull click of the tumblers echoed almost ominously before he pulled it out. As his hand closed on the latch, his smile faded suddenly.

"What you see in here, you must not speak of to anyone," he said, sternly, not looking at her directly. "You and I will be punished severely if any of Master Javier's secrets are made known to others."

Sylphiel almost laughed - the wizard had no such authority to punish her for anything - but it caught in her throat as Heran's head turned sharply. Whatever the sorcerer could or could not legally do, Heran's words were the simple truth and the severity of his expression told her that if she had any sense, she would believe it. For a second, she worried about just what this Javier was doing, and if she really wanted to know, but she had promised Heran her help. She nodded firmly.

"I understand."

The magician wetted his lips as he pushed down on the latch and the door opened silently. He let her enter into the dark room first, shutting and locking it behind them. The smell of animals was heavy in the air, but in the darkness, she couldn't see anything at all and the silence in the room seemed unnatural. A loud clapping rang out as Heran slapped his hands together and the torches sprang to life all around the room, except in the back corner.

Cages the outer edge of the laboratory, filled with small animals of all kinds, mostly dogs and cats, just as Heran had said. They huddled at the backs of their tiny cells, as if wishing to melt into the stone and out of sight. The despair was apparent on every creature and Sylphiel had never thought that such a look of hopelessness was possible for an animal. In the darkened corner in the back, a huge glass tank held something much larger, but it huddled in the darkness, a vague mass that she couldn't, and didn't want to make out.

But it wasn't the obviously neglected animals that caught Sylphiel's eye. The middle of the room was a smoothed bowl with a small set of stairs raising to a dais just above the center. The bottom could have held several of the small creatures that Javier had imprisoned, and the polished surface would prevent them from crawling out, regardless of what torturous things he did to them. It was the pentacle, however, that struck her hardest. Traced in lines of deep blood-red, with twisted symbols that seemed to writhe like serpents filling the outer ring, the sight of the abominable magic circle filled her throat with a scream that only died in a breathless wheeze.

"Chimera!" she whispered.

Heran heard, but tried to act as if she had not spoken, moving to examine the cages. "It seems that the specimens have calmed on their own. I must apologize for making you waste your time in coming all the way out here."

"Your master is making chimera," she said, unable to mask the horror in her voice.

"What you see in here, you must not speak of to anyone," Heran repeated.

"How can he do this?" Sylphiel demanded. "The Faith has forbidden . . ."

"The Faith has no more authority over us than we do over it," Heran interrupted. "Don't forget that the guild is an autonomous entity, ruled neither by state or by church. After the incident with the Rezo clone, an attempt to ban this research was made, but worse horrors have prompted such proposals than that. The guild headquarters declared unanimously that chimera and cloning research was to continue. It was only Master Javier, however, who continued to do so in this guildhall."

Sylphiel quivered with rage as she walked around the room, examining each cage. To think that each of these poor creatures would be used in a madman's experiments, their bodies and souls twisted into something else. Just the thought filled her with disgust. The practice of black magic was one thing, but this . . . blasphemy, utter blasphemy. To play with souls was to declare yourself above even the kami, to make yourself as though you were a god. Noone had the right to do this to anything. Blasphemy. Had she the power, she would have opened the cages then and there, released every animal in the lab and never mind Javier and his punishment. He had no right.

Kneeling down by one of the cages, she held her fingers out to the small black dog curled up in the corner. It looked up at her, its eyes filled with terror, shivering with fear, but it would not approach. No matter how hard she tried to coax it to come to her, it only stared hopelessly. He had no right!

From behind her, Sylphiel could hear movement and she glanced back at the apprentice magician. Three balls, red, white and green, were dancing between his hands. He had that same, toothy smile on his face and his eyes seemed to be sparkling, but Sylphiel knew it to be no more than a bluff. A very convincing one, but still a bluff.

A fourth ball, this one blue, joined the dance, then a yellow and a violet one, up and down, back and forth in a mesmerizing display of color. Then all six were suddenly bouncing up and down in one hand and he reached into his robe for yet another. A look of confusion replaced his grin and he reached with his other hand to pull open the sleeve. The balls still continued to dance in their circular rainbow as Heran searched through his clothing, never mind that his hands were no longer there to catch them. Slapping his forehead, Heran pinched his thumb and forefinger together at his ear and a black ball seemed to grow from them like a balloon. In an instant, that joined the fray and he went back to his juggling as though he had never stopped. Sylphiel fought down the urge to clap.

"Of course, this is only a sample of what you'll see at the festival," Heran said proudly. "I couldn't show off my bigger tricks in here. The noise would bring every sorcerer in the building here to shut me up, but I'm certain you get the idea."

Sylphiel met his eyes firmly. "You're avoiding the situation," she said. "This is wrong and you know it."

"Know it," Heran admitted, his smile fading. "Can do nothing about it. Javier is my master and the will of the high council is absolute in the guild. What they say goes."

"Then you support this activity by allowing it to continue," she said.

"You don't understand," Heran's voice was almost whinny now. "I have no choice."

"You always have a choice, Heran," Sylphiel answered. "Unless you realize that, you'll never meet your goals. It is the power of choice that allows you to achieve your dreams."

At once, the balls disappeared somewhere into the magician's robes - they had to go somewhere, didn't they. His face was pained by indecision. No, it was torn by it. Heran understood the truth of her words, knew that by doing nothing, he may as well have been taking part in Javier's experiments, but he did not dare speak up. Sylphiel crossed the room toward him.

"You need not be a member of the guild to pursue your dreams," she said. "You could teach yourself, you know. I know a sorceress of great power and she never got any help from the guilds. Perhaps if you . . ."

Whatever she had been about to say was cut off by a shriek of terror. The thing hunched over in the shadows was suddenly rushing forward, its eyes burning with rage and hunger. Her foot slipped and she fell. The creature lunged, claws flashing. With a dull thud, it smashed into the edge of the tank, blood splattering from its forehead on the glass from the force of the impact. Breathing heavily from panic, Sylphiel suddenly realized that Heran had rushed forward to catch her and that he was speaking calmly, trying to soothe her, although, dazed from fear, she couldn't quite make out what he was saying. Her legs felt like water, her stomach ice, and she couldn't find the strength to resist as the magician carried her over to a chair.

The creature, as large as a troll, but with spindly limbs that seemed far to thin to support such weight, pounded on the glass wall that kept it from getting at the fresh meat and blood so close to it, its long, sword-like claws screeching against the glass, leaving long deep cuts along the polished surface.

"You can relax," Sylphiel distantly heard Heran say. "The glass is forty centimeters thick and reinforced by magic. It can't harm you."

Sylphiel glanced up at Heran, shocked that he was standing right over her. With a final angry growl, the monster retreated to the back of the tank and curled up in the shadows out of sight. Sylphiel felt as though her mouth and throat had been stuffed with cotton and her tongue swollen to twice it's size as she tried to speak. The ice in her stomach was spreading into her blood, coursing through her entire body, and she started to tremble. Heran took a waterskin from his belt and held it to her mouth. She drank gratefully and when she found the courage to speak again, she looked up at the magician.

"What in the eight burning hells is that thing?"

Heran glanced over his shoulder at the monster in the tank, then shrugged.

"One of Master Javier's chimeras," he answered sullenly. "A horrible, misshapen thing. I do not know what constituent creatures compose that foul thing, but were it my decision, I'd order the beast destroyed."

Sylphiel opened her mouth to reply, but a cold voice answered before she could speak a word.

"Then it's a good thing that the decision is not yours to make."

The both of them turned at once. Neither had heard the door open, or the lock being undone, but a tall, gangly man dressed in black and pale as an albino was walking toward them from the other side of the room, a vein bulging furiously above his deathly, yellow gaze. His red hair was slicked back, glistening with oil even in the dim torchlight. He stopped, standing over the two of them, his cold glare empty and unblinking.

"Good day, Master Javier," Heran stuttered. "I did not hear you enter."

Those yellow eyes moved only the tiniest bit toward the apprentice, but Heran withered like a unwatered plant, somehow managing to keep his feet, though his legs trembled visibly even beneath his robes. As the apprentice bowed submissively, Javier's eyes slid back to the young woman, trapping Sylphiel in the unchanging, hollow gaze. There was no expression in them, they were empty - it must have been her imagination, but she felt certain that she couldn't see her reflection in those beady, black pupils. She couldn't look away.

"Cautrim told me that you were entertaining a woman in my laboratory," the sorcerer hissed. "I was so certain that such a thing was impossible that I almost punished him then and there for lying to me. It seems that miracles happen every day, I guess."

Heran stepped forward. "No, Master Javier," he began. "It's not as Cautrim has said."

Sylphiel never saw any movement. In one moment, Heran was raising his hands to make a some pleading gesture, then the apprentice was on the ground, his nose bent in an impossible direction and oozing red. Blood was dripping from Javier's outstretched fist, but his gaze had not seemed to move an inch.

"I care not what you were doing," the sorcerer snarled. "You have brought an outsider into my private laboratory, and one of The Faith at that."

Javier did not so much as walk as he did glide over to the tank to examine his creation - his movements were so fluid Sylphiel could not clearly see it beneath his black robes, nor could she hear his footsteps on the hard, stone floor.

On the floor, Heran coughed, spitting blood as he started to sit up. Sylphiel moved from her chair, bending over to examine his nose, though she knew it was broken before she got near. Taking it firmly in her hand, she gave it a sharp tug and, with a sickening crack that made the magician wince and draw a sharp breath, it snapped back into place. She gently laid her palm over his nose and started to say a prayer of healing, but the horrified look in Heran's eyes cut her off an instant before Javier's hand clenched over her throat, tearing her away and thrusting her back into the chair with such force that she knew her back would bruise.

"There will be no healing for my wayward apprentice," the sorcerer snapped. "Perhaps the pain will teach him a lesson in keeping the rules."

Coughing, she glared up at Javier. "You can't . . ." she coughed violently. "You can't do that."

"No, Sylphiel," Heran began.

There was a loud smack, and he was face down on the floor again, Javier glowering over him as though he were a snake, and his apprentice a mouse in his coils. Sylphiel started to rise, but in a whirl of black cloth, the sorcerer was facing her again, one long finger pointed directly at her chest, his eyes large pools of yellow around tiny dots of blackness, with more white around them than she would have imagined possible.

"You have come into my chambers without my permission," he said, cold as a winter's storm. "By the laws of the guild, laws agreed upon by this kingdom, I have the right to deal with you as I please."

Sylphiel's breath held in her throat. She knew the laws well, knew that even with Heran's permission, she was at the mercy of this madman. By law, he could do anything to her and face no consequences, but he wouldn't dare. The city, the empire itself, was at odds with the sorcerer's guild and to harm a member of The Faith would be straining that already tenuous relationship. He wouldn't dare harm her. Would he? Those eyes told her different.

"I should destroy you here and now," he said. "But I don't need the hassle. Heran, escort this woman out of the building, then return to me promptly. You and I will have a long discussion about what privileges you are given as an apprentice."

Heran nodded and his mouth moved as if to speak, but there was no sound. It made no difference, however, as Javier was already back at the tank, looking over his abomination, beaming with pride. The apprentice rose to his feet, taking Sylphiel by the arm and leading her toward the door. As they passed by the cage that had held to the little black dog, she glanced down at the poor animal, which looked back up at her.

"Prepare yourself, Maiden," it said. "You have been called."

"What?" she asked.

Heran tried to lead her on, but she slipped from his grasp and kneeled down by the cage. The dog, still curled up in the back corner, only stared at her helplessly. Heran put his arms on her shoulders and tried to lift her again, but she shook him off.

"What do you mean?" she demanded, but the dog was silent.

"Please, Sylphiel," Heran begged. "We must leave."

In a flash, Javier turned, rage burning every corner of his face save those dead eyes. Sylphiel returned the glare with equal rage. The dog had spoken to her and that could mean only one thing, a thing too horrible to even speak of.

"Who was it?" she shouted. "Who did you take?"

"Get that woman out of my laboratory this instant!" Javier shrieked.

Heran tried to grab her, but Sylphiel threw his arms away, taking a bold step forward. She saw the mage raising his hands, his lips moving in a soundless, unholy chant. The torch flames fluttered as if a gust of wind were passing through the laboratory and the room visibly dimmed. From somewhere very far away, she heard the apprentice cry out defiantly, pleadingly, but a righteous fury filled her body. She would not let him get away with such a horrible crime against humanity. If he killed her, she would see justice done upon this wicked man.

"That dog just spoke to me," she shouted at him as she moved steadily forward. "You cannot hide your sin now, Javier. Who was that you used in your experiment?"

The mage stopped, his hands freezing in the final gesture of casting his spell and the torrent of arcane energies flooding into the room dissipated in an instant. A horrible silence fell over the room as Heran's cries cut off sharply. For a moment, the temple maiden and the mage only stared at each other, her expression hot with anger, his cold with confusion and fear - a knowing fear.

"I have not done this thing you have accused me of," Javier hissed. "I have not yet used that animal in any my experiments."

"Lies," she shot back. "I heard it speak."

Heran put his hands on her shoulder. "I heard nothing," he said. "And he hasn't done anything with it. Please, Sylphiel, think about what you're doing."

Sylphiel turned. "He can't get away with this," she said firmly. "Why are trying to protect him?"

"Because I speak the truth," Javier replied. "I do not know what you think you heard, but that animal did not speak."

"Then why is there fear in your eyes?"

There was fear, but, as she met his gaze, she realized there was more confusion and surprise than anything. As the moments passed, Sylphiel began to realize that there was no lie in his eyes when he claimed innocence of her accusation. He had not used any human in his experiments, but there was something else in that stare. There was genuine surprise in his eyes, but not that she had heard the dog speak to her.

And then it was gone, whatever it was that Javier knew, or suspected, it was gone, replaced by the same, empty glare. Heran tugged at her shoulder again, whispered pleadingly.

Sylphiel turned walking past the apprentice toward the door, pushing it open and striding out defiantly, never once looking back. Heran followed closely behind, closing the door after.

"What was that all about?" Heran breathed hoarsely. "You almost provoked him to killing you, then suddenly leave without a word? He might have changed his mind, you know."

"Get out of here, Heran," she said as firmly as she had ever said anything, looking him square in the eye. "I don't know what that man is doing there, but nothing good will come of it. Leave now, while you still can."

The sound of grinding gears shook the hallway as the gates dragged open. Sylphiel strode confidently toward the outside, toward the blessed sunlight, more than happy to be out of that place of unspeakable horrors.

"You don't understand," Heran answered. "I have no other place to go."

Just outside, she turned to face him. "Find a place."

Heran started at the forcefulness of her words, the severity of her expression. He started to speak, but it was lost in the clamor of the machine starting up again. With a heavy crash, the gates slammed shut.

* * *

Ah! but if that don't just feel gooooood. And the story takes a step forward. This chapter will need a lot of polishing later, but at least the better part of it feels right.

I wonder, though, if I haven't given too much away too soon. I worry that some of the information I've provided will make a few things later in the story too easy to figure out. Oh well, I guess we'll see. I am curious though, so if you think you've figured out something that should be a secret, e-mail me (don't post it in review and spoil it for those who may not figure it out). As always, I appreciate your feedback.


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